


The New Guy

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, questionable plotting, snakes!, the ODS are bastards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1952298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick’s been on the team three years, and he’s not the new guy anymore.  If only he could convince his team of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos. My life is sometimes chaos, though, but that’s not the same thing sadly.
> 
> A/N: For ayjaydee, about a month or so late. I hope you had a great day! Beta thanks to sockie1000.

It’s been three years.

Sometimes, it seems hard to believe. That he’s been an active CIA operative for three years. Serving his country, making a difference in the world. Doing the jobs other people can’t to promote the greater good.

Sometimes, though, it seems really easy to believe. _Three years_ of tagging along after his team, plunging into one crazy antic after the next. He tells himself all the time that he’ll stop being the brunt of all their jokes, but another mission comes and goes, and it seems Rick’s still the new guy.

It’s not like they’re bad guys. They are bastards, but they’re not _bad_ guys. And they have some really great moments, and they’ve done amazing things together. There are no people Rick trusts more. 

It’s been three years, and Rick wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.

But, it’s been three years. Rick isn’t green behind the ears anymore. He’s a trained and seasoned spy. He has his own contacts, and he’s organized his own missions. Higgins is retiring, and there are other opportunities for Rick.

He chews his lip, looking at the transfer application. Adele had said he’d be a good fit for it, a deputy chief in a field office in the Middle East. It’d be one hell of a promotion, and Rick could make a difference there. It’s a smart choice.

Behind him, the door opens. “All the same, I don’t see why scotch can’t be declared an office expense,” Billy says, clearly belaboring the point.

“The CIA will already have to cover your liver issues down the line,” Michael says. “I wouldn’t push your luck.”

Casey scoffs. “That’s all Billy’s done for the last decade,” he mutters. “If the scotch doesn’t kill him, I very well may.”

“You’ve been saying that for years,” Billy says, sitting in his chair. “I am beginning to think you doth protest too much.”

Michael pulls out his own chair. “He’s right,” he says. “I think it’s pretty safe to say that your threats are a bluff.”

Scowling, Casey sits down as well. “It’s called restraint,” he says. “Lesser men would have given in years ago, when Martinez showed up and Billy became superfluous.”

Billy opens his mouth indignantly.

“Three years,” Rick blurts. His teammates look at him, curious. Rick blushes, and tries to act casual. “I’ve been here three years.”

“So the first nine we can account for,” Billy jumps in, missing Rick’s point entirely. “And the other three?”

“Don’t tempt me, Collins,” Casey growls, moving his mouse to wake up his computer.

Billy grins. “But it’s so much fun!”

Michael rolls his eyes, reaching for his glasses. “How’s that paperwork coming, Martinez?”

Rick stiffens, feeling suddenly conspicuous with the application in plain sight. “Um, good,” he says. “Just need a little longer.”

“Not too much longer,” Michael tells him. “We want to be in the air for South America by the end of the week.”

“Off for another jaunt of adventure and heroism!” Billy extols.

“If we’re counting on the new guy to get us there, then we may have to keep waiting,” Casey mutters.

Rick’s not surprised. It’s usually only a matter of time before he’s reminded -- quite vividly -- of his place on the team. 

He also doesn’t have the patience for it. Not today.

“I’m not the new guy,” Rick says crossly.

“You just said it yourself,” Casey says. “Three years--”

“Is a long time!” Rick says. “I’m not a rookie anymore, guys. I’m not the new guy.”

“Ah, now who doth protest too much,” Billy says.

Rick sighs. “I’m _not._ The paperwork is almost done, and it’s _impeccable._ ”

“We don’t doubt that,” Casey says.

That’s too reassuring. That’s almost nice, like they trust him. Jaded, Rick narrows his eyes. “You don’t?”

“Of course not,” Michael says with a smirk. “Because the new guy always does the paperwork.”

Rick doesn’t even bother to groan. He should have seen that coming. After three years, he should see _everything_ coming. That’s how it is with the ODS. Everything is predictably unpredictable. Nothing ever goes according to plan in the field, but the ODS is perfectly trained and in tune to respond to such unpredictability with steadfast resolve. It’s ironic, really. It’s impressive.

It’s exhausting.

And there’s nothing Rick can do but let it happen.

“Let me just say again, young Rick, how welcome your presence is on our team,” Billy tells him earnestly.

“You’re just glad you don’t have to do the paperwork anymore,” Casey says.

“And he is magnificent company,” Billy says with a glare at Casey. “Unlike some in our present company.”

Rick doesn’t even bother to interject again. There’s no point. He’s had variations of this conversation every week since he joined the ODS.

Every week.

Including the week he was out with the flu and the vacation he took last summer to Jamaica.

“Enough, you two,” Michael reprimands loosely. “We still have a lot of intel to cover before we’re in the air.”

“Three days,” Billy reminds them all with a wink.

Rick shifts his paperwork, pulling it over the application. It just needs a signature before he turns it in, but he can’t do that now. Not with the guys in the office.

Casey sighs. “If I can survive another three days with your insufferable idiocy.”

Three days, Rick thinks as he nervously starts up his work again.

Three days and three years. That’s not so much.

It’s also not so little.

-o-

For his mid-morning coffee, Rick finds himself in the break room. He’s pouring himself a generous cup -- his mug has gotten bigger each year he’s been with the ODS -- when there’s the sound of footsteps behind him.

The heels indicate someone female. The pace is strong but not committed. This is a confident person with no place in particular to be. The cadence of the footfalls is familiar, though, and three years with the ODS has made him something of a paranoid bastard. He knows who’s coming, and it’s the best part of his day.

“Hey,” Adele says. They’re all but living together now, but Adele likes to keep things strictly professional at the office. There’s no kissing; no holding hands. A few sly winks and seductive innuendos, however, are not off limits.

Rick puts the pot back and smiles. “Hey.”

“So, happy three year anniversary,” she says.

Rick tilts his head. “How did you--?”

“Well I have seen your personnel file,” Adele says. “And memorized. Meticulously.”

Rick furrows his brow. “That’s disturbing and unethical,” he says. 

She wets her lips purposefully and sidles just close enough.

Rick can’t keep his composure. “It’s also pretty sexy.”

Having gotten the reaction, she pulls away to pick up a coffee cup of her own. “It’s also fairly easy for me to remember,” she says. “It’s my three year anniversary, too. You forget, we started on the same day, Rocket Rick.”

“Ah,” Rick says, pausing to take a sip. “And here I thought someone actually cared about my accomplishments.”

“Oh, I care,” Adele says, finishing pouring herself a cup. “But the Agency doesn’t typically honor people until they reach their five year service mark, so it’s still two years away.”

“That’s not very helpful,” Rick says.

“Aw,” she returns. “This is actually bothering you?”

“No,” Rick says, a little too quickly. He sighs. “I just. The guys haven’t said anything.”

“Well, that’s a good thing,” Adele replies. “It means they’ve stopped viewing you as an outsider.”

“But I’m still the new guy,” Rick protests. “Three years, and I’m _still_ the new guy.”

Adele shrugs. “Relatively speaking--”

Rick levels her with a look.

“Right,” Adele says, readjusting her focus. “That’s not really the point.”

“I’m a good spy, right?” Rick asks. “I mean, I’ve organized missions. I’ve brought in intel. I’ve saved the day, more than once.”

Adele hesitates. “Are talking as lovers or work colleagues?”

“Does it matter?” Rick asks.

“Well, as a work colleague, I would remind you that you have accomplished a lot in three years. You’ve had a remarkable record,” she says. “But your teammates have all had much longer careers, and far more successes. In comparison, you really are the new guy.”

Rick’s shoulders fall.

“But that’s why I think you should apply for the position,” Adele says. “You can’t change the ODS, but you don’t have to stay with them, either.”

Rick swirls his coffee around. “I know,” he says. “It’s just hard--”

“No, it’s not hard,” Adele says. “It’s not even an insult to them, if that’s what you’re thinking. You’ve thrived with them. They’ve helped make you who you are. They’ve had a huge part in your success, but you’ve gotten to the point where you don’t need them. But if you stay there, if you stay with the ODS, you’re always going to be the new guy. Three years. Five years. Ten years. Until one of them moves on.”

He knows this. He _knows_ this. But this is his team; they were the ones who saw him on his first mission. They know him, and he knows them. There are some bonds that are hard to break, even when he wants to. Things could be better without them, but they could also be worse. It’s silly, Rick knows, but it feels a little like betrayal.

“Hey,” Adele says, reaching out to touch his arm. “I’m serious. You are a good spy. You’re going to have a great career. People move on and people move up. That’s how it is. That doesn’t make your experience less. That just means you’ve learned what you need to. It’s a compliment.”

Of course, his team also pranks him, talks down to him and generally tries to terrorize him. They betrayed him his first day on the job, three years ago. Maybe he is overthinking this.

He smiles, meeting her eyes again. “I know,” he says. “I just don’t want to deal with telling them.”

“Well, then don’t tell them until after you hand in the paperwork,” she says.

“Oh, I won’t,” Rick says. “I won’t tell them until I’ve confirmed that it’s been received and reviewed and files. Preferable in multiple places with photocopies available.”

“Good,” she says brightly. “You know, three years ago you never would have thought like that.”

“Three years is a long time,” Rick says.

She nods sympathetically. “You really wanted a celebration, didn’t you?”

“Just a little bit,” Rick says, a little relieved to be petulant. “A card or something. Lunch out.”

“Well,” Adele says. “Maybe tonight I can tell you what I think of your spy skills again.”

Rick raises his eyebrows. 

Adele trails her finger on his arm. “As your lover, that is.”

“I’d like that,” Rick tells her, grinning. “I’d like that very much.”

“Good,” she says, tossing her hair slightly as she regains her workly composure. “Until tonight, then,” she says primly as she strides back out just as confident as she came in. “Happy three year anniversary.”

-o-

On his way back to the office, Rick sips his coffee with newfound purpose. Sure, his team treats him like an unskilled novice. Yes, they act as if he hasn’t saved their lives more times than any of them can count. Of course, Rick’s spent three years proving himself just to be back at square one every single day.

But he has an exit plan. He has a future. He’s going to do things. His career is going to matter.

At least, he’s confident until he sits down at his desk and quickly realizes someone has been at his desk.

Someone has been all _through_ his desk. Papers are scattered. His things are off kilter. His pen cup has been moved entirely to the opposite side.

“Hey,” he says. “Were you guys looking through my things?”

Casey doesn’t look up. “We have warned you about the dangers of displaying personal items.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Most people would have learned that after three years,” he muses.

Rick sighs, starting to shift through the papers in frustration as he tries to put reports back together. “You guys know all my secrets,” he fusses as he makes a stack and attempts to straighten it. 

“That’s probably not something you want to admit with other spies,” Michael says with a smirk.

“Or anyone for that matter,” Casey says.

“Except Adele,” Billy suggests. “She would probably love the sense of power that comes with an entirely transparent soul.”

Rick glares. “I don’t have any secrets because you guys don’t give me any privacy,” he says pointedly. 

“Again, that’s not really a bragging point,” Casey says.

Rick sighs, then he notices his desk doors are ajar. “And my drawers, too?” he asks incredulously. “Come on!”

“I needed a pen,” Billy says, sounding somewhat apologetic. “I asked Michael and he refused. Casey insisted upon some feat of strength before lending me one, and I did not feel up to such a challenge before lunch.”

“So you destroyed my desk?” Rick asks, shutting each of the drawers. He lingers at the bottom one, where he suddenly remembers the application has been stuffed at the very bottom. 

“I did you a favor,” Billy tells him. “When your workspace is too predictable, you become boring and anal. Just like Casey and Michael, here.”

“It also means you get things done,” Michael says. “Ignore him.”

Rick tries to smile, but his heart flutters in his chest. His fingers start to sweat as he opens the bottom drawer, which has been pulled out just a crack. He might have left it like that himself. Or…

Swallowing, Rick tries to keep an even face.

“Everything okay, Martinez?” Michael asks.

Rick’s hand trembles as he slides the drawer out. Unlike the rest of the desk, however, it’s in perfect order. No signs of tampering.

He exhales, closing the drawer. “You know, you could do your work on your computer,” Rick advises, his voice even and calm despite the palpitations of his heart.

“Aye,” Billy agrees. Then he smiles, holding up his half-finished crossword. “But I can’t do this without a pen.”

Rick isn’t surprised.

Of course, he’s not really surprised about anything these days.

Three years, and Rick has his place on this team completely figured out.

-o-

Billy does his crosswords. Casey checks his email. Michael finishes a best seller.

Rick works through lunch and files the report. To Rick, it only seems natural to work at work. In all honesty, he’s not entirely sure how his teammates pull it off -- how they manage to know _everything_ and yet never do _anything._

Of course, none of them seem to have any kind of healthy life outside the office, so Rick figures it’s possible that they spend their free time doing work and spend their work hours acting nonchalant.

That seems just like them, in fact. Each of the plotting in their own way to make Rick crazy. He’d have called them on this behavior years ago, except they always seemed to make it work. No matter how hard Rick worked, they always seemed to know more. It’s kind of impressive, but Rick also recognizes the sacrifices involved. Michael’s divorced. Billy’s been deported. And Casey is...Casey.

Sometimes Rick worries that if he stays with the ODS long enough, he’ll become like one of them for real. Paranoid and devoid of a personal life.

That’s not what he wants.

Even so, it’d be nice if they helped with the paperwork every once in awhile.

Weary, he finally settles down for a bag of chips from the vending machine. He’s just about to take his first bite of salty goodness when he hears the footfalls.

Dress shoes; male. Three of them, different strides but all somehow in tandem.

Rick resists the urge to crawl under the table.

Instead, he shakes his head, not even looking up. “No way,” he says. “I’m eating.”

“We haven’t even said anything,” Michael says.

“Your lack of trust is insulting,” Billy says, sitting down across from him. He doesn’t ask as he reaches across to steal a chip.

Rick glares at him, swatting the hand away. “You don’t stalk the halls together unless you have a reason,” he says. “Otherwise it’s always divide and conquer.”

Michael looks somewhat impressed. “I never thought of it like that.”

“And the term _stalk_ is rather negative,” Billy says. “I prefer to think of it as striding with purpose.”

Rick takes a petulant bite. “Whatever it is, you do it,” he says. “And right now, you’re stalking me. Which means you want me to go to a meeting for you or do some more paperwork or bribe Doris for extra funds. Well, not now. I just did all your paperwork, and this is my first real meal all day. I’m going to sit here and enjoy my chips, thank you very much.”

“Okay,” Michael says with an easy shrug. “I guess you can enjoy your chips while we get on a flight.”

“And take on international crime and terrorism with heroic accord,” Billy says proudly.

“But please, enjoy your chips,” Casey concludes. “If we end up captured and shot because we’re a man down, at least we’ll know it was worth it for your daily sodium intake.”

“Wait,” Rick says, ignoring the insults for now. “Flight?”

“Four o’clock, out of Dulles,” Michael says.

“Apparently your paperwork was quite convincing,” Billy says. “Higgins gave us the green light, and he wants us to fly -- now.”

“Fresh intel suggests renewed movement,” Michael explains. “We have to go now--”

“Or we won’t go at all,” Casey says.

Rick’s hungry, but he’s never _that_ hungry. Missions -- that’s why he joined the CIA. That’s why the last three years have been the best of Rick’s life. Because his team is annoying and difficult and contrary and invasive -- but they get the best damn missions ever. Field work is what makes sense; field work is everything to him. A lot has changed in three years, but not that.

Never that.

“So we’re going, then?” Rick asks.

Michael inclines his head. “Unless you’d rather stay and eat your chips.”

Rick wants to be angry; he wants to be gruff and condescending, just like they are with him.

But...he’s done all the prep on this mission. He did the paperwork. This is his mission, and this is his team.

For now, anyway.

Crumpling the bag, Rick does his best not to grin like an over-anxious teennager. “Well, then,” he says, getting to his feet. “We better move.”

-o-

Back in the office, Rick doesn’t waste any time. He hastily sorts through his paper, sifting through the files as fast as he can to determine what he needs. There was a time when he would have obsessed over this, but anymore he can do it on gut instinct alone. He knows his missions; he’s ready.

“Hey,” Rick says. “Make sure we get that background report on the area. I have most of the main contacts memorized, but if things get difficult, we may want a few other people to fall back on.”

“Why would things get difficult?” Billy asks glibly. “It’s not as if we’re trying to get a trail on one of the most notorious lines of drug trafficking in the Southern Hemisphere.”

“Not just the most notorious,” Michael says. “The most elusive. That’s why Higgins was so keen to let us go. Apparently, he thinks Martinez hit upon something genius in this intel roundup.”

“It’s a small window of opportunity,” Rick delineates. “Because one of the leaders has a mother in this city.”

“Yeah, about that,” Casey says. “You really think crashing her funeral is the way to go?”

Rick looks up. “Hernandez is dangerous and manipulative, even for a drug cartel member, but he loves his mother,” he says. “He’ll be there, and if he’s there--”

“The rest of his business will be, too,” Michael says. “We know. We should be able to get firm IDs on a number of his most trusted men, which can help us track their movements better.”

“And we’re impressed!” Billy says.

“Mostly,” Casey adds coolly. “I’d be more impressed if we didn’t have to ask you where your bag is.”

That’s when Rick realizes that despite his ability to pack fast, his teammates are still faster. They’re each standing, bag at hand.

Rick sighs.

“Aw, never fear,” Billy says. “I take great pleasure in packing your socks.”

“You mean you take great pleasure in mismatching my socks,” Rick mutters.

Michael tries not to smile. “It’s okay, Martinez,” he says while Rick bends to unlatch the bottom drawer of his desk. “We forgive you for being a rookie--”

Michael stops short when Rick produces his own duffle bag. It’s smaller and tidier than any of theirs. He puts it on his desk with a diffident shrug. “You were saying?”

There is a moment of silence.

Glorious, victorious silence.

Then, Billy grins. “There is hope for the next generation after all!”

“About time,” Casey says with a condescending snort. “When did you finally pack that?”

“About two and a half years ago,” Rick says, slipping his scant paperwork into the front of his bag. “Remember? After Billy broke into my apartment and Michael packed a pair of shoes that didn’t match _anything._ ”

Michael grins. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“I had to wear brown shoes with black pants the entire time,” Rick says. “It nearly ruined my cover.”

“But it was so fun to watch you improvise,” Billy muses.

“And it was also fun that your lack of black shoes meant you were the one who had to stay back during the dinner party,” Casey says. “Dress code.”

“Yeah,” Rick says. “I remember.”

“The joys of being the new guy,” Billy says with more enthusiasm than should be warranted. “Buck up. You fill the role brilliantly. Best new guy we’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only new guy you’ve ever had,” Rick mumbles.

“Billy was the new guy for years,” Michael says. 

“And he was terrible at it,” Casey says. “Even more annoying than he is now.”

“I reckon I was always too suave,” Billy preens. “But Rick -- young Rick has the youthful disposition and wide-eyed charm that so defines the part. One look at him, and you are drawn in by his boyish charm.”

“I’m a grown man, and I’m standing right here,” Rick reminds them, reaching down again to close the drawer. The bottom drawer -- without the bag, the application is in plain sight. He’d forgotten.

Michael smiles magnanimously. “If it makes you feel any better--”

“It doesn’t,” Rick says abruptly, grabbing the application and stuffing it in his bag with the rest. “It doesn’t make me feel better when you remind me again of my failures. It doesn’t make me feel better when you talk to me like I’m a kid. It just doesn’t.”

Michael raises his eyebrows.

“Someone’s testy today,” Casey says.

“Or nervous,” Billy says. “It’s perfectly normal--”

“Oh, come on,” Rick says. “On a scale of one to ten, I’m a two, okay? So can we just go already?”

In another moment of glorious silence, Rick shoulders his bag and leads the way.

-o-

By the time Rick gets into the hall, his team has already fallen into step beside him. By the time they turn the corner, it’s as if Rick was never in the lead at all. There is no acknowledgement that Rick is right.

There never is.

It’s just all business as usual for the ODS and their new guy.

“We didn’t manage to get tickets on all the same flight, but we should be on the ground within hours of each other,” Michael reports.

“I, of course, will take whichever flight guarantees me the window seat,” Billy says.

“It’s nighttime, genius,” Casey remarks.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Billy says.

Michael snickers while Rick does his best not to roll his eyes. “The problem is, three of us are on one flight,” Michael continues. “Which means--”

“I’ll take the solo seat,” Rick says without waiting for anyone to volunteer.

Or, more aptly put, volunteer him.

They all look at him.

Rick shrugs. “Was I suppose to wait for you to volunteer me for this typical form of new guy torture?”

“I didn’t realize things were so predictable,” Michael says dryly.

“Nor that someone so young could be so bitter,” Billy says in dismay. “You should watch out or you may become Casey Malick yet.”

“There are worse things,” Casey says.

Rick just shakes his head, keeping the pace. He’s determined to breeze out of Langley before things can get any more ridiculous, but then he sees the sign for Human Resources.

He remembers, then, the application is still in his bag.

If he leaves now, he’ll miss the deadline.

If he leaves now, he’ll be with the ODS possibly for the _rest of his career._

Abruptly, he stops. The team stops a few steps ahead, turning back with reserved curiosity. “New guy forget something?” Billy asks.

“I, um,” Rick says, gesturing vaguely down the hallway. “I promised Adele I’d say goodbye.”

“When did you talk to Adele?” Michael asks, brow furrowing.

“In general,” Rick says. “I promised her that I wouldn’t leave the country without saying goodbye.”

“And that’s why I’m not in a committed relationship,” Casey huffs.

Billy grins with a reassuring nod. “By all means, go and salvage your young love.”

“Just don’t miss your flight, Martinez,” Michael says, holding out a plane ticket. “We expect to see you on the ground.”

“It is my mission,” Rick reminds them.

“We’re a team,” Michael replies. “It’s our mission.”

Rick doesn’t know what to say to that. Honestly, he doesn’t care. The ODS will try to inspire him, to guilt trip him, to trick him, to cajole him, to _anything_ \-- just to get him to do what they want. That’s what happens to spies after too many years in service. They don’t know how to be honest or straightforward. They don’t know what real relationship always are, not without a lot of care and commitment.

Rick can’t end up like that.

He won’t.

This new job isn’t just about advancement, it’s about his sanity.

He forces a smile. “Don’t worry,” he says, starting down the hall. “I’ll see you when I get there.”

-o-

Halfway down the hall, Rick can’t help but look behind him. His team trusts him, and he trusts them -- mostly, they trust him to screw up and he trusts them to be bastards. It seems they’ve hardly noticed that he doesn’t screw up all that much.

They, on the other hand, become bigger bastards every year.

And it’s not all bad. Rick knows they mean well. Sometimes it’s just curiosity. Sometimes it show they express concern. Sometimes it’s just habit.

But Rick’s found them stalking him more time than he can count. In the start, he couldn’t catch them at it, but now he manages to figure out their ploys before they manage to pull them off.

Not that this stops them.

Three years, and Rick has learned a lot. His team, on the other, not so much.

When he looks back, there’s no one following him. 

All the same, he doubles back and peeks back to where he last saw them. He does a loop in the area, just to be sure, and checks a few closed doors to be safe. When he feels well and truly alone, he starts back toward Human Resources. He’s too aware of the security cameras, but he takes comfort in the fact that any methods to hack those feeds would take too long to use, so even if the team did try to track his efforts by some other means, it would have to wait until after they got back from the mission.

By then, his application would be reviewed and processed.

By then, it would be too late.

By then, Rick might have his exit plan.

And Rick wouldn’t have to be the new guy anymore.

-o-

As he approaches HR, his pace quickens. His eyes dart around the hall, half expecting Michael to turn the corner or Billy to pop out of a door. He wouldn’t even be surprised if Casey dropped from the ceiling.

It doesn’t happen, though. He nods politely to someone before going inside. The receptionist smiles at him. Rick pulls out his application. He hesitates for a moment before putting it down and picking up a pen. He takes another breath before scrawling his signature across the bottom and holding it out.

“I’d like to get this on file,” he says. “Immediately.”

The man at the desk smile. “Oh, you’re applying for a field office!” he says. “That’s a great one. And so important, too.”

“Yeah,” Rick says, glancing nervously behind him. “Just, um. Get it copies and filed. Twice, please. I want one on the desk and one in the permanent file. That’s a secure area, right?”

“Our files are very secure, I promise,” the man tells him earnestly.

Rick is underwhelmed. Maybe its his over eager smile or his neatly styled hair. “Make it three copies, okay?” he says. “Get each manager their own copy, just to be sure.”

“My, my,” he says. “Thorough, aren’t we?”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Rick asks.

The man nods heartily. “That’s how I can always tell who will be a great spy in the field,” he says. “That healthy sense of paranoia.”

Rick glares. “Just make the copies.”

“Will do,” the man chirps back. “Thank you for your application!”

Rick scowls and turns away, huffing his way out of the office.

In the hallway, he straightens his suit.

That’s that, it seems. This is an immediate opening, and Rick knows things will probably move quickly. By the time he gets back, he’ll know. Hell, by the time he gets back, he may be a week away from a quick flight to a new posting.

He starts back down the hall.

In fact, he realizes as he goes, this mission to South America could be his last one as a member of the ODS.

-o-

Head high, he turns down another corridor. He knows it’s her before he completes the turn -- the click of her heels, the smell of her perfume -- and he stops with a smile.

“Hey,” he says.

She looks genuinely surprised. “Hey! I heard you guys got the green light. Shouldn’t you be on your way to the airport?”

Rick lifts his bag. “Headed there now,” he says. He bolsters himself, puffing his chest out just a little. “Just needed to drop off my application first.”

“Oh, that’s great!” she says. “That’s really great. I know they’ll be thrilled to get your application. You’re by far the most qualified candidate.”

“Yeah, well,” he says. “If this all goes right, this will be my last mission as the new guy.”

“I know!” she says. “That’s a little bittersweet, isn’t it?”

Rick grunts. “Bittersweet? I’ve been the butt of their jokes for three years. Do I need to tell you all the times they’ve drugged me?”

“Well, as I recall, you caught on last time,” she says.

Rick can’t help but grin. “Yeah, that was funny,” he says. “Billy was not happy that I switched our drinks, but the plan worked just as well with him as bait.”

“So, see,” Adele says. “It’s not like it’s been all bad. I mean, they have taught you a lot.”

“I know that,” Rick says. “It’s just. I can’t be the new guy. I’m not the new guy. If they want a new guy, we should let them get another new guy.”

“If it will make you happy,” she agrees.

“Well, it’ll be best for us, right?” he says.

She hesitates at that, something shifting in her countenance. She likes to be professional at work, but when she pulls him aside, he sees that the facade has fallen. “We will make it work, either way,” she tells him. “I’m naturally ambitious, and sometimes I worry that I’ve projected too much of that on you. I know we haven’t always had a relationship based on honesty, and this sort of natural dialogue doesn’t come easily for me, but I hope I haven’t pressured you--”

“What? No,” Rick says. “You’ve opened my eyes up to the possibility, sure--”

“Because I only suggested it because you sounded unhappy sometimes,” she says.

“I have been unhappy,” Rick replies. “I’m frustrated.”

“And you shouldn’t be,” she says. “But I just want to be sure that you’re doing this for the right reasons.”

“So I’m not the new guy?” Rick asks.

“You could always talk to them,” Adele suggests. “I know honesty is not a preferred means of communication amongst spies, but they do care about you. Just like I do.”

Rick grins, reaching up to sweep her hair off her cheek. “Not like you do.”

“Well, fine,” she concedes. “Not exactly like I do. But they might treat you like the new guy for a lot of reasons. Just be sure you want this because you want a new role. Not a new role on your team.”

Rick collects a breath and lets it out with a small smile. “This is what I want,” he says. “This is always what I’ve wanted. To move up. To make more of a difference. I’ve given this three years. Now I’m ready for something else.”

“Remember,” she warns. “You’ll be the new guy wherever you go. You’ll be starting all over again.”

“I’ve had three years of training by the right bastards themselves,” he says. “Somehow I like my odds.”

Chuckling, she nods. “You may have a point.”

“Of course I have a point,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss to her cheek.

Adele, however, pulls away. The facade is back in place now, and she stands straight and proper. “Well, then, Mr. Martinez,” she says. “Best of luck.”

“I thought you said I was the best applicant,” he protested.

“I meant on the mission,” she says, smoothing the front of her suit. “Don’t forget, you’re still a member of the ODS. This may be your last mission, but I don’t want it to be your _last._ ”

“Is that worry?” Rick asks playfully.

“Professional concern,” she says coolly. “You are one of my best assets.”

“You know my best assets,” Rick tells her suggestively.

“Yes,” she demurs. “Though you may have to refresh my memory when you get back, Operative Martinez.”

His smile widens. “With pleasure.”

-o-

Pleasure is the word of the day. Not only did Rick get to say goodbye to his girlfriend and apply for a new and amazing job, but he also gets to fly by himself.

Some people find long flights boring.

These people have never been a member of the ODS. _Nothing_ is boring with the ODS. When he isn’t doing their grunt work, he’s fielding their ridiculous requests about kidnapping people out of public bathrooms or going in on off the book cover businesses with them. He’s being drugged, dropped off, followed and generally harassed as part of this team, and while Rick knows this is all done with the best of intentions most of the time, it does get a bit exhausting.

For three years, he feels like he’s barely had a second of downtime. When he goes home, his teammates break in at all hours to do whatever they see fit. When he’s on vacation, they somehow end up on location with him regarding a mission. They’ve even shown up outside his mother’s house.

They go through his things; they bug his apartment; they talk to his friends. Life on the ODS is time consuming, invasive, difficult, amazing...but never boring.

So if he’s telling the truth -- and these days, Rick is rarely telling the truth with a team like his -- a long flight of quiet and isolation from other spies is nothing short of _beautiful._ He doesn’t care that he’s crowded into a center seat. He doesn’t care that the woman next to him has slumped over and is snoring in his ear. Because right now, Rick isn’t a part of the ODS.

No, Rick’s a lawyer for an oil company on his way to South America to make sure that everything is in order for an expansion deal. All he has to do is sit back and relax.

Not that it’s that easy, of course. Rick can’t help but check out the other passengers, sorting them in his mind from non-threats to potential problems. As an evening flight on a weekday, it seems heavy with business travelers, but not all men in suits are the same. Some have the harried look about them, taking their drinks and poring over their paperwork. There are one or two, however, who seem a bit too laid back and Rick considers the possibilities.

They could be foreign intelligence agents. Or they could be criminals, possibly with the very cartels Rick is tracking. They’re not familiar, though, so they aren’t in any database, but that’s the whole point of this mission.

Rick is psychoanalyzing a woman doing her makeup when he realizes what he’s actually doing.

He’s being like one of them.

He’s _just_ like the ODS.

Paranoid bastards, to the last one. And Rick’s exactly the same. Assuming the worst in everyone; detecting subterfuge around every turn. Three years ago, he never would have done this.

Rick’s going crazy, that’s what it means. He’s actually becoming one of them. It’s taken three years, but he’s dangerously close to a tipping point. It’s not just that he doesn’t like being the new guy. It’s that he’s not always sure that he wants to be one of the old guys. He still remembers what Adele told him early on, that he was different from his teammates. She’d meant it as a compliment, and Rick understands now what she means.

Three years ago, Rick wasn’t naive. He was good. He was pure. He was idealistic.

Now, he’s mentally classifying complete strangers. He can tell himself it’s all about security risks and that’s part of it’s job, but that’s not why Rick wants to be a spy. There’s a balance between security and freedom; he enforcing security to give most people freedom. The problem with the ODS, and Rick’s known this since the beginning, is that they define their own boundaries as they see fit. It’s always for the greater good -- they’re heroes, each and every one -- but the boundaries are blurred. 

Nothing is _boring_ with the ODS. It’s complicated and it’s difficult, and although spywork is about subterfuge, it’s always been very simple in Rick’s mind.

To fight the good fight. To do what his country needs. To protect the innocent.

There’s right and there’s wrong. Other people may see a moral gray space from the outside, but it’s always black and white to Rick.

At least, it used to be. After three years, he’s starting to understand Higgins’ reticence about the ODS. They will pull of the miraculous, but then they’ll pull the rug out from under your feet. It’s hard to explain, how he can trust three men so implicitly and yet not trust them at all.

Maybe that’s just how it is, at least for the old school spies. Maybe that’s how it used to be, and the ODS is the last of a dying breed. Rick’s not sure he wants to be part of that.

In a new position, Rick will have all the same opportunities -- and then some. He’ll be deep undercover, providing longstanding intelligence gains that he’ll get to see through on the ground. He’ll get to define his own rules and do things his way. He can save his paranoia for when he needs it -- in the field.

He’s not sure he wants to become Michael or Billy or Casey. He wants to be _Rick Martinez,_ and he wants to define what that means for himself.

He’ll never be able to do that with the ODS.

Next to him, the woman sniffs, head dipping down on his shoulder. Rick sighs, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Settling back in his seat, he dims the overhead light and takes a few deep breaths. Then, he closes his eyes and relishes the sounds of normal people living normal lives.

Smiling to himself, Rick lets himself drift off to sleep for the duration of the flight.

-o-

Rick enjoys the respite for what it is, but when the plane lands, he knows there’s no time to sit around and wallow. No matter what’s going on with his application back home, he’s got a job to do. That’s another thing he’s learned from the ODS -- the job always comes first.

It may seem like a gruff list of priorities, but it’s about survival. There are times to be paranoid, and trying to identify key members of an elusive criminal organization is definitely one of them.

As he disembarks, he can’t help but watch his fellow passengers wearily, including the two suspicious men from the plane. They go their separate ways, however, and neither seems to have any particular interest in Rick.

Although he feels somewhat uneasy still, Rick hastily goes about his business, leaving the airport and calling for a taxi. He recites the name of the hotel without having to check his itinerary, and his small talk is right on point for a big shot lawyer looking to make a buck. He tips impressively -- all part of the character -- and checks in with due aplomb. At the desk, he watches the employees, gauging their level of interest and concern. The man helping him seems indifferent to him, but there’s a woman who keeps checking him out behind the desk.

He considers her possible affiliations, but ultimately decide she’s probably just checking him out. Rich lawyer on a business trip -- he probably seems like a catch. To find out for sure, Rick winks at her.

She demurs with a giggle.

And they call Billy charming.

There’s a few other suspicious people camped out in the lobby, but no one worth stopping for. He lets the bellhop take him to his room, and he’s grateful again that their separate cover stories allowed them separate rooms. A little privacy can go a long way.

After tipping the bellhop, Rick flops back on the bed. Which is exactly when his phone goes off.

Frowning, Rick pulls it from his pocket. “Hello?”

“About time,” Michael says. “Are you going to head over to my room or just lay there all afternoon?”

“Um,” Rick says. “How did you know I was even here?”

“We can check your flight status online,” Michael intones. “Besides, we already bugged your room.”

Rick wants to be offended, but he’s not even surprised. “You guys know you can trust me right?”

“Sure,” Michael says. “But where’s the fun in that?”

The call disconnects, and Rick groans, dropping his arm over his eyes. It’s only taken him three years to be paranoid. It probably won’t be long before he’s a bastard, too.

Rick is more certain than ever that it’s time for a change.

First things first, though -- he has a mission to complete.

-o-

He already knows Michael room number, and he doesn’t bother to knock. Instead, he stands, tapping his foot impatiently before Michael opens it for him from the inside.

“Too good to knock?” Michael asks.

Rick huffs, walking past him. “If you’ve already bugged my room, then you’ve already figured out how long it takes to get from one room to the next,” he says with a look to Billy and Casey for good measure. 

“Listen to that,” Billy says proudly. “Said like a real professional.”

“I am a professional,” Rick reminds them. “Three years, remember?”

“Talk to us after a decade,” Casey says.

“All of which is beside the point,” Michael tells them. “This mission--”

“Is nothing but a go,” Rick says. “The service is tonight. I’ll check in with my local contacts, and we each need to cover separate entrance points in order to ID as many vehicles and people as possible. We want someone at the parking lot, and someone with eyes on the church entrance. Fortunately, there is enough tourism in the area that you guys can pull off tourists pretty well.”

“And you’re sure your invite to the funeral will hold?” Michael presses.

Rick doesn’t so much as blink. “It’ll hold.”

Michael nods, continuing, “Because a lot depends--”

“I said it’ll hold,” Rick cuts him off flatly.

Michael doesn’t back down. “Because we want to be sure--”

“Look,” Rick says. “If you want to double check my leads and contact all my assets, fine. It’ll take more time than we have, and you’ll probably spook every one of them, which will lead to this mission being a complete and total failure. But if you want to check instead of taking my word for it…”

Billy whistles. Casey raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like someone hates flying commercial as much as I do,” Casey says.

Rick glares.

“It is awfully jaded for someone so young and inexperienced--”

“But I’m not,” Rick snaps. “I’m not young; I’m not inexperienced.” He sighs, frustrating causing his cheeks to flush. “Look, I know what I’m doing. My intel got us here, and it’ll finish the job. You trust me. Right?”

The question lingers, hovering in the air with an unspoken uncertainty.

Trust -- it comes back to that. They have to trust each other in everything, and Rick has his doubts about some things, but not on the mission.

Never on the mission.

Michael meets his gaze, nodding. “Of course we trust you,” he says. “We just know what will happen if this goes south.”

Rick shakes his head. “It’s not going to go south.”

“Surely we’ve taught you better than that,” Michael says.

“You should always assume things will go south,” Casey agrees.

Billy nods knowingly. “It’s a better thing to be prepared--”

Rick groans. “Spare me the lecture.”

“You think you’re too good for it?” Michael asks.

“No,” Rick says. “I think I’ve heard it before. On every mission. For the last three years.”

“Well,” Billy says. “You know us. We like to be--”

“Annoying?” Rick provides.

“Careful,” Billy concludes.

“Also known as paranoid,” Rick says with a shake of his head. “Guys, I know. Trust me. I _know._ ”

Michael holds his gaze a moment longer before finally looking away with a diffident shrug. “Okay, then,” he says. “Let’s get this thing going.”

-o-

Michael’s team leader. Casey has over a decade of experience with the CIA. Billy has served on two spy agencies and worked throughout the world. 

But this is Rick’s mission. It seems appropriate to him. To end on a high note. He can think of no better way to cap off his time with the ODS than bringing things full circle with one last success to chalk up to his name. 

Despite the drawbacks, there are distinct advantages to knowing a team as well as Rick know the ODS. Because they spy on each other and invade each other’s privacy, they know everything about each other. There’s no need to communicate most of the time, which means operations are seamless. With three years together, they have a natural rhythm that defies reason and logic and everything else.

Simply put, they’re good.

They’re very, very good.

After making contact on the ground, Rick disseminates the best ground locations with the others. With so little time to prepare on site, they don’t debate the details but each member settles into their appropriate role.

Casey is down the street, as a last stop in case something goes wrong. Rick doesn’t think anything’s going to go wrong, but Casey’s an apt backup plan if ever they need one. Michael, naturally, has the bird’s eye view, snapping photos of the cars coming and leaving from the parking lot. He likes that sort of thing, having the big picture, and seeing how good he is at it, that suits Rick just fine. Billy has been planted as a mindless tourist, tasked with taking as many photos as possible of the people coming and going from the church. If anyone can get away with taking pictures of drug dealers, it’s going to be Billy with his affable charm and natural charisma.

Donning a crisp suit, Rick adjusts his dark blue tie. He looks the part of a well wisher, seeking to pay his respects. His choice to go in is only partly because this is his op. It’s also because he’s the only one who really looks the part, and his Spanish is by far the best.

Plus, Rick’s good at this sort of thing. Ever since he ate a scorpion on day one, they’ve all known how he functions under pressure. He’s not always conventional, but he’s got the guts to pull it off.

Besides, if this is going to be his last op with the ODS, he’s going to make the best of it.

He’s going to bring it all home with a bang.

After three years, he would have thought he would have learned by now.

It’s always the things he doesn’t see coming--

Those are the most inevitable things of all.

-o-

Sitting in the pew, Rick adjust his tie self-consciously. His cover is impeccable, but it’s impossible not to feel conspicuous. He gauges each well-wisher, determining if they are a threat and the best means of disabling them if they are. He’s thinking about stealing an old woman’s cane to knock out an entire row of mourners when he realizes the service is starting.

Awkwardly, Rick refuses to adjust his wire, even though it itches something terrible. They’ve gone radio silent for all obvious reasons, and he glances as the last stragglers take their seats when it finally occurs to him why this has been so uneventful.

Because he’s not here for little old ladies and grieving members of the community.

He’s here for the head of a drug cartel who’s supposed to see his mother laid to rest.

And Rick’s looked at every person at that church, and he hasn’t made a positive ID on any of them.

Cautiously, he looks around. With surreptitious glances, he’s able to look through the mourners, but this only confirms what he’s already realized: there’s no sign of Hernandez. He looks up; he looks around; he looks to the spot where the choir would be.

There’s no one there.

Drug dealers can probably come and go on their own timetable, but they’re not late to their mother’s funeral.

Unless, of course, they were never coming in the first place.

Heart skipping a beat, Rick mumbles the responses in Latin to the priest and looks over the program. All the appropriate information is there, and then he sees the note. It’s in Spanish, but Rick’s ability to translate is impeccable.  
 __  
Private interment to be held with family at another location.  
  
And that’s the moment he realizes his team was right.

Again.

Rick crosses himself and starts to pray.

-o-

It doesn’t help, of course, that this is a full Catholic service. Nothing is spared or skipped, so it’s a good hour before Rick is free to figure out what the hell he’s going to do next.

And he has to do _something._ If he goes back to the motel with nothing but a failed mark, he’ll never live it down. He doesn’t want to end his tenure with the ODS on such a low note.

Really, the solution is simple. The public service is by far the easiest option, but if he can find the location of the private ceremony, then this whole thing is still a go.

Fortunately, Rick’s a damn good spy. He thinks ahead like Michael; he’s disciplined like Casey; he can charm like Billy. It doesn’t take much to discern the most likely targets. While some of the younger men look like possible professional cohorts of Hernandez, they’re not likely to be stupid enough to say anything specific. The grieving young women would be too loud to deal with, but the little old ladies--

Rick casts a glance at the open casket. This was a well liked woman, one with a place in the community. She had friends.

And what are little old ladies going to talk about? The failures of their husbands and the exploits of their children. Rick doesn’t bother with the ones who look especially sad, but he finds a pair that seem suitably somber without being distraught and starts up a polite conversation in Spanish.

“She was such a woman,” Rick commiserates. “It is nice to see how well loved she was.”  
“Yes, yes,” one woman tells him. “Such a lamb, that one. I take comfort in knowing she is with the angels in Heaven.”

Rick smiles sympathetically. “I hope her children were with her in the end,” he says as gently as possible.

At this, the second one tuts. “That son of hers,” he says. “She would give him everything, but he balks.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Rick says. “Is he here?”

“No, no,” the first continues. “He would have this all in secret, but his mother did not wish it. We are lucky we got her body as long as we did.”

“So she won’t be buried here?” Rick asks innocently.

The second crosses herself. “Bless her soul,” she murmurs. “No, that boy of hers. He will have her body taken up to the village.”

“The village?” Rick asks.

The women exchange a glance and tilt themselves forward. “She came here, to this city, from the village,” one explains. “She built herself from nothing, and endured much. Her son, he comes into this and does not understand. He thinks he understands, which is why he takes her to the village. But the things that go before are the things that matter, and he thinks they are nothing but stories. He can bury her in that village, but he does not understand the point.”

Rick raises his eyebrows. “The point?”

“Our roots are not for nostalgia,” the other says. “We cannot cut ourselves off and hope to suffer nothing. No, our roots are what makes us strong. That connection is everything, more than power or ambition or any of the rest.”

“She never wanted to go home,” the first says solemnly. “Her only wish was to see him return to her.”

The other mutters an expletive. “God rest her soul.”

Rick nods at them seriously. “I’m very sorry,” he tells them clasping each of their hands in turn. “So very, very sorry.”

-o-

Back at the motel, Rick’s the last one there.

He stalks in, undoing his tie and flopping heavily on the bed. “Don’t say it,” he mutters.

“Don’t say what?” Michael asks. “That the entire thing was a bust?”

“That we didn’t get a single positive ID?” Casey asks.

“Or how about how you used two little old ladies unabashedly in their time of grief?” Billy presses.

Rick glares at them each in turn. “First of all, it wasn’t a bust. We didn’t get a positive ID, but we know where we have to go.”

“Because you used grieving old women!” Billy says. “At a funeral!”

“I got the job done,” Rick snaps.

“But you’re forgetting that our mission parameters don’t clear us to stay here--”

Rick levels him with a stare. “Really?” he asks. “You’re going to lecture me about mission parameters.”

Michael’s lips quirk up into a wry smile. “I’m just saying it for your benefit.”

“You are the one who usually lectures us about such things,” Casey agrees.

Rick just rolls his eyes. “When was the last time I lectured you guys about anything?”

Michael narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “Athens.”

“Bogota,” Billy chimes in.

“Nairobi,” Casey says.

“All of which were _last year,_ ” Rick says. “And if you try to count Nagasaki, I’m calling it, because I lectured you about keeping Higgins out of the loop when you wanted to bring him in. And I was right, by the way. Just like I’m right now.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Rick takes some satisfaction in that. His team is fast and quick witted. To even earn a second of silence is a feat he’s grown to appreciate.

“Even if we do go off book,” Michael says. “It’s going to be a stretch. We have contacts and an escape route here. You can’t even be sure you know the secondary location.”

Rick shakes his head. “That’s what the little old ladies were about,” he explains. “They all but told me--”

“About the second service,” Michael says. “But they didn’t have a location.”

“The village can only be one place,” Rick says. “It’s all in the intel.”

Michael glances to Billy and Casey, who both shrug.

“You really didn’t memorize all the intel?” Rick asks, a little indignant. “The mother’s place of birth. It’s a remote village northwest of the city.”

“That’s why we have you,” Casey says with a cool tilt of his chin.

“As you were the one undercover,” Billy agrees.

“Uh huh,” Rick says. “Or you’re all getting soft.”

Casey straightens. “Would you like to test that theory?”

Rick doesn’t even blink. “If you like--”

Michael holds up his hand. “As fun as it would be to see you two go at it, I think we might still have some kinks to work out,” he says. “This village is northwest of the city?”

Rick eases back down a bit with a nod. “Yeah, it’s most indigenous.”

“Yeah, and it’s also going to be right in the middle of the rainforest,” Michael says. “Getting there’s not going to be easy.”

“Well, of course it’s not going to be easy,” Rick says. “Nothing we do is ever easy. That’s never stopped us before.”

“Perhaps not,” Billy says. “But sometimes it should and does give us pause.”

“What you’re talking about is almost unfeasible,” Casey says. “We have to get through the rainforest and set up reconnaissance in a remote area without being recognized.”

“We could blend in here,” Billy says. “There, we’d be ID’d the minute we stepped foot in the village.”

“Which rules out any kind of organized transportation,” Michael says. “Even if we had the funds to charter a flight, we’d be blown the minute we touched down.”

“So we don’t fly to the village,” Rick says. He looks at them all again. “Do I really have to spell it out?”

“Go ahead,” Michael says, sitting back with a curious glint. “Enlighten us.”

“We fly to the next closest village,” Rick says. “And then we hike the rest of the way.”

Michael looks bemused. Casey looks vaguely impressed.

Billy simply balks. “You want to hike through the rainforest? That’s not some leisurely stroll!?”

“I know,” Rick says. “We’ve done it before. A couple of times. And I’d argue that Cambodia was worse.”

Michael tilts his head. “We haven’t done this hike yet,” he says. 

“The second you think things are going to go easy--” Casey starts.

Rick groans. “I know, I know,” he says. “That’s when things start coming out of nowhere.”

“And you’re not remotely concerned?” Billy asks. “Going outside our original objective with no backup and no support on a jaunt alone that could kill us, not to mention the difficulty of finding a good location to take photos without getting caught up in the inevitable security trap set up outside the village? This is a bit of a stretch. Even for us.”

Rick can’t help but grin. “Not for us,” he says. “This is my mission. Things haven’t gone according to plan so far, but we’ve still got options. Lots of them. And this will work. I know it will.”

The other three exchange wary glances.

Rick bolsters his chest, because he knows that he’s right. More than that, he knows that they know he’s right. “Trust me,” he says. “By this time tomorrow, we’ll have our photos and be on our way back home.”

Back to a proud director and hopefully a job offer -- and just about everything else Rick’s ever wanted in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Rick checks in with his assets and arranges for transportation to a safe zone outside the village, he’s not even sure what time it is. It’s still dark when they arrive at the airfield and the sun is just starting to come up when they climb inside the plane.

His teammates look weary, and with the stubble on their faces, they look older than Rick remembers. Settling down in his seat, he straps on his seatbelt with a smile. “What’s wrong? You guys look tired.”

Billy grouses as he sits down. “We are tired,” he mutters. “I don’t even know what day it is.”

“That’s because your body is not properly trained to live on minimal sleep,” Casey says as he settles himself as well. “Although in general I prefer to use my skills in more demanding circumstances.”

Rick smirks. “You guys are showing your age.”

“Maybe,” Michael concedes as he plops down next to Rick. “So does that mean you’re showing yours?”

“New guys,” Billy mutters as he slumps back and closes his eyes.

Rick’s smirk fades. “I’m not the new guy,” he says.

Casey shrugs while Billy mumbles something unintelligible. Now, Michael’s smirking.

Rick’s frown deepens as the plane rumbles to life. “I’m _not._ ”

-o-

The flight is short, and Rick dozes for exactly ten minutes. When they’re on the ground, he’s the first one up and about, thanking the pilot and slipping him several hundred dollars to ensure he feels like sticking around.

Their location isn’t so much a village as it is an agricultural checkpoint. There are houses and a small store, just enough to support the basic needs of the migrants who settle here throughout the year. It’s small and neglected, which makes it a perfect spot. 

Rick checks his GPS and consults a map, nodding readily. “Okay,” he says. “This is perfect. It’s a straight shot from here with no significant obstacles.”

“Just a bloody rainforest,” Billy mutters.

“But no rivers, no mountains, no cliffs,” Rick says.

Michael leans closer. “We’re still looking at, what, a half day hike?”

“More like eight hours,” Casey says. “We won’t get through the terrain that quickly.”

“Eight hours?” Billy balks. “Isn’t that cutting it a little close?”

“It’s not like there’s anything to set up,” Rick says. “A local contact told me that the village only has one cemetery, which is conveniently located on the outskirts. With a telephoto lens, we don’t even have to get that close, which should keep us clear of the security in place.”

Michael nods thoughtfully. “So you want us to hike for eight hours in a remote location that we’ve never been in before to arrive just in time for a funeral we haven’t confirmed with a security detail we haven’t vetted,” he explains. “All with no sleep, no backup and probably a slim margin of success.”

Rick folds up the map. “Yeah,” he says. “That about covers it.”

There’s a tense moment of silent, but finally Michael bows his head. “Okay, then,” he says. “Looks like you’re in charge, Martinez.”

-o-

Rick takes point, leading his team into the woods. He has to keep his GPS active at all times, ensuring that he’s moving in the right direction, but overall navigation isn’t so hard. They’ve packed light -- just enough food and water for the trip, and they’ve each got enough surveillance equipment to get the job done.

Three years ago, this might have seemed crazy to him. Suicidal, even.

But a lot has changed in three years.

Rick knows what he’s capable of. Rick knows what he wants.

And he’ll stop at nothing -- no rainforest, no drug dealer, no outdated team dynamics -- will stand in his way.

-o-

As they walk, Rick thinks. That’s what he does; it’s part of the job. He’s got his plan, but a plan is never enough. There are more factors to consider, and with a mission like this, there are always caveats. Therefore, Rick’s accounted for as many contingencies as he can, and he’s spent most of his time during the first few hours of the hike contemplating all necessary escape routes and backup emergencies. He’s thought through potential cover stories and the most secure means of hiding sensitive photos in case of approach by security personnel. He’s assessed his closest assets, and thought out a potential timeline in case something should go wrong.

With all this, Rick hardly notices the hike at all. In fact, it’s only when he stops for a pre-planned rest that Rick realizes he’s drenched. He’s covered in bug bites, and when he stops to take a drink and eat a power bar, he realizes just how tired he is.

Tired, though, doesn’t do the rest of his team justice.

Billy all but collapses, slumping miserably against a tree. Even Casey’s face is slicked with sweat and he looks less pleased than normal.

“What?” Rick asks. “You guys can’t cut it?”

“I’ve been contemplating the return on the investment,” Casey says. “Frankly, I’m not sure I see it.”

Michael slings his pack down and opens his water. “You have to admit,” he says. “The timing’s not the best. Taking a long hike after minimal sleep.”

“It’s not so bad,” Rick says.

“So bad?” Billy protests. “It’s like torture! I’ve been better treated while being held captive!”

“Hyperbole is not the point,” Casey says. “The point is that this may still all be for nothing.”

It’s Rick’s turn to groan. “I told you guys--”

“Right, right,” Michael says. “Your little old ladies and your knowledge of the case file.”

“And my instincts,” Rick says. “Come on. Three years. How often am I wrong?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and the critical looks from each of his teammates is answer enough. Billy, though, huffs. “You mean, besides today? Or yesterday, or whenever it was?”

“I wasn’t wrong about that--” Rick starts.

“You did get Higgins to green light this project based on very specific intelligent and a supposition you all but guaranteed,” Michael says.

“And I was right,” Rick insists. “He’ll be at the funeral--”

“Which is why we haven’t told Higgins where we are?” Casey prompts.

Rick’s mouth opens. Because that’s it. He’s accounted for everything, but he hasn’t accounted for this -- his team’s stubborn insistence on being difficult, taciturn and impossible.

And they’re not done yet.

“We did warn you,” Michael says. 

“Aye, the best laid plans of mice and men,” Billy says. “They don’t just go awry, they go up in flames. Or through the rainforest, as it is.”

“That’s not even fair,” Rick protests.

“It’s okay, we understand,” Michael says. “Rookie mistakes happen.”

They’re not serious, and Rick knows that. They’re just tired. They’re joking, even. Rick should just let it go, just like he always does.

Every single time.

For the past three years.

Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the humidity drenched into his clothes. Maybe it’s the damn bugs. Maybe it’s three years of baiting. 

But Rick’s had _enough._

Rick’s seen all the contingencies, but he still doesn’t see this coming: his own breaking point.

It comes out of nowhere, pushing through his emotions with an intensity he can’t control. All the times he’s held his tongue; all the time he’s laughed with them. It’s just one snide comment too many. It’s just one joking reprimand over the top. It’s one remark that pushes him over the edge.

And there’s no turning back.

“No,” Rick says, shaking his head, as his defiance solidifies. “It’s not a rookie mistake--”

“As you are a rookie--” Casey starts.

But Rick shakes his head adamantly. Because he’s put up with this. He’s put up with _everything,_ and he has his breaking points. Three years. _Three years._ And if he’s going to leave this team, he’s leaving as their _equal,_ not some junior officer they humor. “I’m not a rookie,” Rick says. “I’m not the new guy.”

“Oh?” Michael says. “Then why do you keep making new guy mistakes?”

“I don’t!” Rick all but explodes. “It wasn’t even a mistake. It was a variable that changed, just like they change all the time for _each one of you._ This happens to you guys _all the time._ Your missions change; your covers get blown; you make mistakes, and what? That’s just part of the job for you? But for me it’s somehow different?”

Michael starts. “Martinez, we have years--”

“And so do I!” Rick interjects, too heated to stop now. “I’m tired of being your scapegoat. I’m not your excuse, okay? I’m not your punchline. I’m _one of you,_ and I’ve saved each of you more times than I can count. So no, I’m not making new guy mistakes. I’m not making any mistakes at all. I’m a spy, and I’m just as good as one of you. I mean, I’m not sitting here moaning and complaining. No, I’m getting the job done, because _that’s_ what spies do. So you can sit here and whine and complain and blame me for everything, or you can get up and do the job we _all_ signed up to do.”

He’s flushed in the face, and his voice is strained and grating. It’s a point he’s wanted to make for a while now, for years, really, and now that it’s out, he can’t take it back.

Hell, he’s not even sure he wants to. He’s refrained because he likes his team, and he knows they like him, and he respects them and all they do, but three years.

Rick has his breaking point, and it’s taken three years.

But not another second.

Turning on his heel, he screws the cap on his water bottle and stows it. “We leave in five minutes,” he grunts as he stalks off a ways in the woods. “Be ready or I’m leaving you behind.”

-o-

There are few advantages to hiking through the rainforest. Even as committed to making this mission work as Rick may be, he’s not so obstinate as to be oblivious to that fact. However, for this particular mission, Rick is aware of one particular advantage to their wearying pace.

They’re all so tired that none of them can fully acknowledge just how awkward it is.

It happens, though. Rick knows that. They’ve all had their moments, and they’ve all been in their share of uncomfortable situations. It’s just one of those things -- one of the drawbacks of working so closely with the same group of people over a period of years. They know everything about each other.

That often works in their favor.

And sometimes it really doesn’t.

Rick is still at point, manning the GPS and taking them along the straightest path he can navigate through the trees. The weather is getting hotter, and Rick’s chest feels tight with the continual exertion. He doesn’t slow down, though. Not with the steady sound of his teammates right behind him.

Rick doesn’t look back; they don’t come any closer. They’re keeping their distance in their own way, keeping a tentative peace in the silence between them. It’s hard to say what’s thicker -- the humidity or the tension.

It just takes time. Casey likes to disappear and be violent for a while. Michael likes to glare. Billy sulks like a petulant teenager and, well, Rick--

Truthfully this doesn’t happen to Rick very often. Usually, he just gets over it because that’s what Rick does. Billy’s a bit of a diva; Michael’s a bastard; Casey’s Casey and Rick…

Rick’s usually the nice guy.

The new guy.

Maybe that’s why they keep treating him like the new guy.

Because he keeps _letting_ them.

Not this time, though. If Rick’s learned anything from the ODS, it’s how to handle conflict. It’s about never really admitting you’re wrong. And never saying sorry.

He banks around a fallen tree, picking up his pace a little more.

This isn’t really the way he wants it to end, but maybe it’s for the best. Maybe this just confirms it, they have outgrown each other. This is probably something they’ve all needed, but none of them have been brave enough to do it. It’s not that Higgins was right about the ODS, but it’s not like he was entirely wrong either.

Something has to give, sooner or later. And Rick’s tired of it always being him.

The new post will be good for him. It’ll be good for _all of them._

As he presses on through the forest, Rick’s more sure of that than ever.

-o-

They’re no more than an hour out, and Rick has it all figured. He knows how they’ll fan out, taking all sides of the village to maximize their coverage. He’s figured out the rendezvous points he’s sighted on their trek. He even goes over the important phone numbers in his head in case he needs to call in for emergency support from local contacts or Higgins.

Rick has it all under control. He’s ready for anything.

Which is probably why he takes another step and feels a jolt of pang through his arm. He hisses, surprised, wondering what branch he’s managed to snag himself on.

Except, there’s no branch.

There’s just a snake, writhing and dangling, its fangs firmly implanted in Rick’s forearm. For moment, he’s too shocked to speak. Too shocked to do anything but gape.

He’s planned for everything; he’s thought up every possible contingency.

But he never counted on this.

A snake.

Biting him.

In the Amazon rainforest.

Miles away from extraction.

During an off the books mission.

The last mission.

Rick’s seen everything, but he’s _never_ seen this.

“Hey, guys,” he says, voice wavering as he blinks away the haziness starting to creep into the edges of his vision. His tongue feels funny, and his fingertips start to tingle. “Guys.”

From behind, Billy jogs closer. Michael and Casey follow suit.

“Um,” Rick says, head starting to feel light as his tongue starts to go numb as he looks at the snake. “I think this may be a problem.”

-o-

A problem.

This mission has been nothing but problems. From their last minute departure to the mix up of the funerals. It’s been misinformation, half-baked intel and improvised solutions the whole way. Rick’s acted like everything’s fine because that’s what they do. That’s just what the ODS does. They make it up as they go and everything works out, and it’s not a problem when they get back home.

Not a problem.

This, though.

Rick blinks again and feels his knees go weak. 

This is a problem.

He’s fallen before he realizes what’s happening, and everything goes white before he finds himself sprawled on his back, half supported in Billy’s arm. The Scotsman curses, and Michael’s face is drawn tensely in front of him. “Casey?” the team leader demands.

Casey frowns, moving deftly toward Rick’s side as he grabs Rick’s wrist. His grip is bruising as he reaches up with his other hand and takes the wriggling snake, pressing his fingers deep into the back of its skull and pressing down--

There’s a release and a rush of blood, and Rick’s ears ring as the snake is detached.

“Juvenile,” Casey mutters, squeezing hard until the wriggling stops. “Poor jaw control.”

“Juvenile,” Billy says, voice hot in Rick’s ear. “Is that good?”

“Maybe,” Michael replies while Casey rips up the front of Rick’s sleeve. “They have inconsistent envenomation, which means Rick might have gotten a lesser dose.”

“Or,” Casey says, pulling out his knife as he eyes the two fang marks. “It could have just unloaded a massive dose.”

Rick winces as Casey prods, flinching badly when the tip of the knife cuts into the skin and blood wells up.

“So we’re relying on luck, then,” Billy says, trying to sound upbeat but failing.

“What do you think, Martinez?” Michael asks, looking at Rick. 

It takes effort to swallow, and his tongue is dead now and hard to talk around. “We’re never lucky,” he says woodenly.

“That bad, huh?” Michael says, trying to be light.

Rick takes a stuttered breath, starting to shiver. He shakes his head minutely as beads of sweat break out with new vigor across his forehead. “No,” he says, breathing starting to become thin and uneven. “Worse.”

Michael spares a glance to Casey, who’s starting to look tense. Really tense. Bleeding to death in the back of a broken car in South America tense.

And Rick realizes.

“Wait,” he stutters around his swelling tongue. His heart is hammering in his chest, but everything feels sluggish and dim. “I’m dying?”

Billy lifts him a little closer, and Michael looks back down at him with a grim expression. “You’ve been bitten by a poisonous snake, Martinez,” he explains. “We’re in the middle of the Amazon rainforest with no backup on a mission that’s not exactly sanctioned.”

Rick tries to swallow but it’s difficult. A shudder runs up his spine as tingling spreads up his arms and down his legs. “So you’re saying I’m dying.”

Michael glances out through the trees. “You’ve got emergency contacts, right? How long until they can get to us, you think?”

Thinking is suddenly hard, but Rick’s got every detail of this mission memorized. “After the call’s made, three hours,” he says, fumbling over the words as they start to slur. The sunlight through the trees is starting to halo and he has to keep blinking his eyes to keep his vision focused.

Michael shares another look with Casey, who shakes his head.

Three hours, Rick realizes. Three hours might as well be three years. It’s all too damn long.

Rick’s breath catches and tears sting his eyes. He curses. “I am going to die.”

“Hey,” Michael says, reaching down and taking Rick’s shoulder. He squeezes, looking Rick squarely in the eyes. “In the three years you’ve been part of this team, have we ever let you down?”

Rick nods. “Yes!”

“When it counted,” Michael amends. “Have we ever let you down when you were really in need?”

Three years, and they’ve messed with him, they’ve set him up, they’ve used him. They’ve lied to him, they’ve cheated him, they’ve made fun of him. He’s been their whipping boy, their scapegoat, their punchline.

But in three years, they’ve never let him down when it mattered.

“Never,” he manages to say. “Never.”

Michael smiles, just a little. “Then we sure as hell aren’t about to start now.”

-o-

In his head, Rick goes over all the possibilities.

If they call for extraction, they could provide triage in the meantime. If they drain the wound and flush it out, that might help minimize the venom, and a tourniquet could at least slow the movement from the limb to the rest of the body. Of course, with three hours, Rick would probably be at risk of losing his arm, but a carefully maintained pattern of releasing the blood flow might be enough to maintain the best of both worlds.

Plus, they could shave time off that three hours if they started to hike back and meet any rescue party part way. It wouldn’t be perfect or easy, but when paired with the prior measures it might be enough to keep Rick alive.

They could even split up and let Casey taken Rick while Michael and Billy finished the mission.

It’d be a shame, Rick thinks. To come this far and not finish the mission. It’s his last mission.

Possibly in more ways than one.

In his head, Rick has accounted for everything.

In reality, though, there’s not much he can do. Billy holds him steady while Casey treats the wound again. Michael is turned away, talking in sharp tones on the SAT phone. Rick wants to ask what the plan is; he wants to tell Casey about the best treatments for snakebites; he wants to tell Billy he’s starting to lose feeling in his legs.

As it is, though, all Rick can do is watch. The venom is deadening his limbs, and it’s like there’s a weight on his chest. Cold fear is starting to build in his stomach as his throat starts to close in on itself and every breath feels like a monumental effort.

All his plans and all his contingencies, and this is where it’s come to.

Michael turns back around, on his knees in front of Rick again. “Okay,” he says, calm and matter of fact. “This is going to get a little interesting.”

“Venom’s moving fast,” Casey reports.

“Too fast,” Billy adds in a low voice over his head. “We’re out of time.”

“Aren’t we always,” Michael says, trying to smile at Rick. “But hey, I’ve got a plan, okay?”

Rick’s shaking and he can’t quite blink away the spots in his vision anymore. He tries to wet his lips but fails miserably. “This mission--”

Michael shakes his head. “Rick--”

Rick frowns, grunting in frustration. “The _mission--_ ”

“Leave the mission to us, okay?” Michael says. “You trust us -- right?”

Trust. Trust isn’t earned; it’s owned.  
 _  
And now we own you.  
_  
Rick’s vision starts to fade and he’s back on his first day, sitting in the back of a car with three strangers, seeing his career go up in flames around him. 

“Martinez,” Michael is saying. “ _Rick._ ”

Rick tilts his head, half gaping at Michael. He’s losing control -- the control he’s fought so hard for, the control he’s earned -- and it’s all slipping away, between his fingers, with every pulse of his heart. Maybe he never had it; maybe it’s all been an illusion. Maybe he is still the new kid, sitting in Higgins’ office trading his soul for the promise of a job.

“Just trust us,” Michael says again, as if he’s been saying it all along. “You have to hold on, though. Just a little longer and we’ll get you through this.”

Rick chokes on a laugh and wants to shake his head. If only they knew what they were promising. Rick’s been holding on for three years, and he’s at the cusp now.

Funny, as he lies there, looking at a point beyond Michael ear. Because now he thinks he can see the other side.

“Rick,” Michael all but yells as Billy jostles him. “Hold on. Just hold on--”

-o-

“--just another second,” Adele croons.

Rick scoots out of the bed, looking back at her apologetically as he gets his clothes. “You know I can’t,” he says. “And you can’t either.”

On the bed, she pouts. “I know,” she says. “But we’ve been doing this three years.”

Rick’s buttoning his pants and reaching for his shirt. He pauses, looking down at his arm.

Three years.

It’s been three years.

Rick blinks, confused at the thought. There are two faded scars on his arm, small healed puncture wounds that he covers with his dress shirt as he slips it on. From behind, Adele wraps her arms around him and sighs. “I don’t want to go,” she murmurs against his back.

Turning, Rick takes her in his arms. He smiles. “So don’t.”

“Ha,” she chuckles. “As if it’s that easy.”

“It can be,” Rick says.

“I work at Langley,” she reminds him. “You work in the Middle East. We’ve been in a long distance relationship for three years.”

“Sure,” Rick says. “And there’s a consulate position opening up, and you’ve always wanted to be a diplomat.”

“Well, yeah,” Adele says. “But--”

“But nothing,” Rick says. “You move here. We get married, and then the CIA can place us both at our next posting. A diplomat’s husband is the perfect cover. It’ll work.”

Adele stares at him. “Wait,” she says. “Are you proposing?”

“If I wasn’t, would I have this?” Rick says, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a box.

Speechless, Adele pulls away. Her fingers are trembling when she takes the box. She opens it, then smiles. “Why, Mr. Martinez,” she says. “You certainly have improved your subterfuge in the last three years. I never saw this coming.”

“Good,” Rick says, drawing her closer again and kissing her on the cheek. “Those are always the best things.”

She puts her arms around his neck and kisses him back. “You don’t have to tell me--”

-o-

“--because I already know,” Michael hisses.

Rick’s head lolls, and he wrinkles his nose. His head is heavy and his nose is filled with the stench of sweat.

“Do you?” Casey asks pointedly, his voice closer than it seems it should be. “This mission turned from improbable to suicidal.”

“It’s not suicide,” Michael shoots back. “It could work.”

“Right, and all the bad guys could miraculously turn from their life of crime and turn themselves in,” Casey says with a grunt. 

He’s being carried, Rick understands suddenly. He’s slung across Casey’s back and being hauled like a sack of potatoes. The indignity is hard to take, but given that his mouth doesn’t seem to be working, he has to take it anyway.

“The argument is moot,” Billy says. “If we don’t do this, Rick’s as good as dead.”

“We do this, we may all be dead,” Casey huffs, adjusting his grip around Rick’s leg. His injured arm is limp in front of him and Rick can see that it’s ballooned to twice its normal size.

“Doesn’t matter,” Michael tells them from ahead. “We go home together or we don’t go home at all. You understand? We _always_ go home together--”

-o-

“--or we don’t go home at all,” Rick says, attempting to smile. “That’s what you always say, isn’t it?”

His voice wavers, just a little. It’s not that he’s scared, it’s just that he’s terrified. He’s not sure how he managed to get this far -- after his team had been taken, he’d been pretty sure that there’d be nothing left to do. On the phone, Higgins had given him the order to wait, but waiting would mean Rick would be coming home alone.

Rick can’t do that.

The only alternative is to get his team out, alive.

By himself.

Michael’s face is ashen in the moonlight, and he shakes his head vehemently. “You’ll never get us out,” he hisses. “There are armed guards for a mile, at least. And Casey and Billy can’t exactly walk--”

Rick spares a glance to his other teammates. Michael looks bad, with his face bruised and puffy and his arm hanging funny at the shoulder. But Casey and Billy are worse, with a matching pair of head wounds that has kept them ominously still and silent.

“--it’s suicide, Martinez,” Michael says, as if it’s an order. “You can’t do it.”

Rick swallows hard. There was a time when he would have thought Michael was right. There was a time when Rick probably would have followed Higgins’ orders and waited for backup.

Not anymore, though.

These years with this team. Rick’s learned a lot about how to be a spy.

More than that, he’s learned how to be part of a team, in all the best and worst ways. 

He wets his lips, and this time his smile is genuine as he pulls Michael to his feet. “Watch me.”

Michael inhales sharply, face taut with pain. “Wait,” he gasps. “Just--”

-o-

“--wait!” Michael yells, a strange pitch of desperation in his voice. “We’re unarmed, we’re unarmed!”

Rick is shifted, and he hits the ground a little hard. He groans, curling protectively on his side while flashes of light blur above his head.

There’s rapidfire dialogue in Spanish that Rick thinks he should be able to understand, but the voices drone together with the ringing in his ears.

“Just look at his arm, geniuses,” Casey says acidically. “He’s got a snakebite.”

“For the love of God,” Billy pleads. “We can’t let him die.”

There are heavy footsteps on the ground, and Rick flinches when someone kicks him onto his back. He whimpers, his inflamed arm protesting the treatment.

“Who are you?” someone asks in heavily accented English.

“We’re with a film crew,” Michael says. “Last Chance Productions. We’re scouting locations for a documentary about the rainforest.”

It sounds reasonable, and for a second, Rick almost believes it. His team -- they’re good liars. They’re really good.

“You are lost then, my friend,” the voice says, low and hard.

They’re not perfect, though.

“Well, you have to admit, the maps are pretty hard to follow out here,” Casey tries.

“And when he took the bite, we ran to the closest village,” Billy says.

“We just need a ride out of here,” Michael says. “Please.”

Rick cracks his eyes open, and the world is tilted on its side. He sees Casey’s knees, and Billy’s shadow is long across him. Looking up, Michael is on his knees hands out in front of him. There are men with guns, and the figure looming in front of them is dark and imposing and somehow familiar.

Very familiar.

Rick’s been studying that face for months now, memorizing it and learning every nuance.

It’s Hernandez.

Rick’s stomach turns. His team has taken him to the village and is throwing themselves at the mercy of a hardened drug lord.

Panic spikes in his gut, and he tries to shake his head. He mumbles, but the words are unintelligible.

“Please,” Michael begs. “He’s dying--”

The man comes closer to Rick, scrutinizing him. “He will never survive a flight out,” he concludes.

He turns away and barks an order in Spanish. The men with guns approach him.

Casey tenses and Billy inches closer. It’s Michael who gets to his feet, lunging in front of Rick. “No--”

The mark turns, leveling a hard punch straight at Michael’s face. The other man crumbles, and the men with guns swarm them, pulling Casey and Billy back.

“No,” Michael says, trying to get to his feet. He’s met with a vicious kick to the midsection. “No, just let me--”

-o-

“--do this,” Michael says.

Rick stares at him for a long moment, absolutely incredulous. Finally, he lets out a bark of laughter. “No.”

Michael looks perturbed. “That’s not really the answer I was looking for.”

“Why?” Rick asks. “Because it’s the only answer that even makes sense?”

“I’ve got a bullet in my gut,” Michael reminds him with a pained wince. 

“Thanks, I hadn’t forgotten though,” Rick said, still applying pressure with hot blood soaking into the jacket he has pressed against the wound.

“Well,” Michael says, taking a ragged breath. “You seem to be forgetting that we have to sneak our way out of a terrorist compound within the next hour without getting caught.”

“No, I haven’t forgotten,” Rick says.

Michael’s face contorts in pain, and he shakes his head. “Then why are you still sitting here?”

“Because if I leave you, you’ll die,” Rick replies, using his teeth and one hand to start ripping a shirt into strips.

“That’s why I’m saying, leave me behind,” he says. “I can be the decoy. I can buy you the time you need to get out safely and protect the intelligence. Let me do this. It’s the only logical solution.”

“Letting you die isn’t a solution,” Rick says, hastily shifting his weight to use a strip of fabric to wrap around Michael’s waist. The older operative groans, face going stark white as his breathing hastens. 

Michael’s eyelids flutter, and he’s sweating now. “No point...in both of us…”

Rick ties it tautly, grimacing as he tightens it and Michael goes rigid. “But there’s certainly a point to saving both of us.”

Michael’s eyes are slitted and his head lolls. “Remember who’s in charge, Martinez,” he slurs. “You’re the new guy...”

Rick finishes with another sharp jerk for good measure. Michael goes loose then, slumping back lifelessly to the ground as he breathes wetly through his parted lips. “Sure,” he mutters, reaching down to haul Michael up and over his shoulder. “Then the new guy will save your ass.”

Michael’s weight is heavy on his shoulder, and Rick has to take a long moment to get them both stabilized. “That’s an order,” Michael mumbles, voice almost inaudibly against Rick’s arm. “That’s an--”

-o-

“--order,” Billy says with a small smile. “And you know how seriously we take Michael’s orders.”

Rick swallows, but his throat feels tight. The world is gauzy, and his head feels thick.

Michael leans into view, lips pulled not quite into a smile. He presses a hand to Rick’s head, and Rick shudders at the coolness of the touch.

Apologetically, Michael takes his hand away. His face is marred with a red graze across his cheek.

Chattering, Rick tries to speak. “You...took me to the village?”

“It was our only plan at the time,” Michael confesses, a little sheepish.

Billy smiles more widely, patting him on his good arm. “Besides, your plan -- all that hiking with no human interaction -- was a wee bit dull.”

“And this--” Rick says, struggling to get the words out. “--is better?”

“We were kind of out of options,” Michael tells him.

“But--” Rick starts, breath catching as he starts to wheeze. “They’ll kill us--”

Billy reaches out, soothing him. “Easy, easy,” he coaxes. “We’re not dead yet, all right? So let us worry about that.”

Rick shakes his head, starting to feel panicked. He’s dying and his team has gone and done the stupidest thing possible. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

This _isn’t how it’s supposed to go._

Three years, and he’s still getting it all wrong.

He blinks rapidly, but his vision is almost too fuzzy to make sense of anything. Michael is talking to him, and Billy’s grip is steady. Rick can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he claws his way back to awareness with every ounce of strength he has.

“But the _mission--_ ” he says, and that’s all he can say. Maybe that’s all there is. The mission. It comes back to that; it starts with that. All that’s gone between them, everything that makes them a team, and it’s the mission.

One last mission.

Just then, Casey comes back into view, and Michael looks up to him. “Are they going to give him the medicine?”

Casey stands, face settled grimly. “They’re still discussing it,” he reports. “Our stories match, though, so they might believe us.”

“And they might kill us anyhow,” Billy murmurs.

Michael shakes his head. “But they have it, right?” Michael asks. “They have the antivenom?”

“They’re not exactly being forthcoming,” Casey says. “In case you’re forgetting, your interrogation ended with a fist to your face.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Michael snaps. “If they have the medicine, they’re not going to let him die. Do they have the medicine?”

Casey purses his lips, letting out a tense breath. His eyes lock on Rick’s. “I--” he starts, and then seems to deflate. “I don’t know--”

-o-

“--if I can do this,” Casey says, and he sounds remarkably coherent and collected given the fact that he’s bleeding copiously from a gnarled blast wound to his chest.

Rick’s not sure what surprises him more: that Casey’s still conscious or that he’s admitting weakness.

As it is, his ears are ringing from the explosion. He’d been far enough away when their guide had tripped the landmine to avoid serious harm, but apparently he’s the only one. Still, he half hopes he’s hearing things.

“Wait,” he says, furrowing his brow. “Did you say you don’t know if you can do this?”

Casey looks more annoyed than injured. “I’m losing blood,” he says. “And I have a high pain threshold, but the nature of this wound is pushing me to my limits.”

Rick’s almost afraid to push the issue. “So, you’re saying--”

“I’m saying _I don’t know,_ ” Casey says, grinding the words out with a vengeance. He takes a tight breath and visibly attempts to center himself. “I have supreme control over my body; I have self control you will only dream about; I’m a human weapon, which means I’m _still human._ ”

Rick’s equilibrium has been shaken in the blast, and he’s still going over the stark reality of their situation. They’re in the mountains in Afghanistan; they’re out of radio contact; they’re far from anything resembling civilization -- and farther still from anyone who might help them. If Rick can get back to a road, he’ll probably have phone coverage again, but without the guide, he’d be going blind.

Without Casey, he’d been half defenseless.

“I don’t understand,” Rick says finally, for the lack of something better to say. Because he’s been blown up; he’s probably got a concussion; and Casey’s got a chest wound and he’s losing blood.

Casey’s face tightens in anger. “I don’t know if I can walk out of here, okay?” he snarls. “This injury is _bad._ It’s incapacitating. In a few minutes, I’m probably going to pass out from blood loss, and that will be that.”

“So, wait,” Rick says. “You’re saying…”

Casey takes a long suffering breath. “So I’m saying that it’s up to you,” he says. “I don’t like to admit that, but I’m not stupid. That’s the advantage of being on a team. When one of us falls, the other has to pick up the slack. I’ve done more than my share these last three years, so it’s about time you started returning the favor.”

Rick’s stomach goes cold and his fingers go numb. “Casey,” he says, unable to stop the small tremor in his voice. It’s not that he’s afraid of responsibility, it’s just that he’s not expected it. Not from Casey. Not like this. With blood all over the place and so little chance of success. “I don’t know if I can either.”

Casey glares at him. “Then I guess I’m dead,” he hisses. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” Rick starts.

“Well, then it’s up to you,” Casey says, and this time his voice falters. His face is draining rapidly of color and the tension in his body is starting to abate. “This one, it’s going to be all on you.”

Rick’s stomach churns. “And if I can’t?”

Casey’s lips quirk into a humorless smile. “Then we’re both dead, I guess.”

It’s so matter of fact, that it should be unsettling.

But somehow, in the midst of likely tragedy and probable failure, Rick realizes that basic essence of Casey’s words. Not that he’s hurt or that he’s fallible. Not that the task is daunting or damn near impossible.

But that he trusts Rick.

Willingly or not, he _trusts Rick._

That’s the power of a team.

“Okay, then,” Rick says, mouth tipping into a small smile as he reaches down for Casey. “One rescue, coming right up.”

Casey groans, eyes starting to loll back. “I feel better--”

-o-

“--already,” Casey mutters. 

“You know, your sarcasm is not overly helpful,” Billy whispers back.

Rick tries to open his eyes, but the shadows have deepened now. They’re not outside, but the floor is dirt. And he’s cold. So, so cold.

“This isn’t even a plan,” Casey replies in a heated tone. “This is--”

“Our only option,” Michael cuts him off. “We keep telling them the same thing.”

“And count on the benevolence of drug lords?” Casey asks.

“He has a point,” Billy says with an apologetic shrug. He cast a glance down at Rick. “But it is his mother’s funeral. Maybe he’ll be feeling unusually grandiose.”

“Rick doesn’t have time--” Casey starts.

“Rick doesn’t have any other options,” Michael cuts him off. “I just wish they’d make up their damn minds--”

Billy offers Rick a smile. “All under control, mate,” he lies. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

Rick tries to shake his head, but all his protests get lost in his throat. His breath comes in thin, labored gasps and it’s like ice water is running through his veins.

They’re liars, every last one of them. Liars and cheaters and damn it all if Rick doesn’t want to believe them, now more than ever.

There’s a noise from outside, and his teammates jerk up stiffly, and Michael’s on his feet when the armed men come in. “Please,” Michael says, arms out. “Just let us help him--”

The men push forward, one grabbing Michael and wrenching his hands behind him. Casey is on his feet, lashing out at the next guard while Billy positions himself protectively in front of Rick.

“No,” Michael yells, but he’s cut off with a pained grunt. “Casey, no--”

Another guard falls and four more enter. Someone pulls a gun, and Billy tenses, ready to lunge while Casey takes on the next wave. 

“Please--” Michael calls out.

There’s a series of meaty thunks, and then the metallic sound of a gun being cocked.

Michael’s voice is as desperate as Rick’s ever heard it. “Damn it, _listen--_ ”

Then, cutting through the din, the sound of a gunshot.

And Billy’s falling--

-o-

\--and he hits the ground, hard. Across the entryway, Rick’s too late to stop his fall, and he skids across the floor wildly as their asset flees in the opposite direction. Rick thinks he should follow her -- the entire mission hinges on her -- but Billy’s rigid on the floor.

Grim, Rick bends down lower. “Billy?” he asks. “Billy, I need to see--”

Billy grits his teeth and shakes his head. When he looks up at Rick, his eyes are wide and his face is ghostly white.

“She stabbed me,” he breathes, almost indignantly as he curls around his abdomen and his inhalations quicken. He pulls away his hand, and it’s coated red with blood. “She _stabbed me._ ”

For a second, Rick can only stare. He can’t see the wound through Billy’s shirt, but the blood is dark against the light colored dress shirt.

Billy laughs, a coarse sound that catches in his throat with a sob. “She stabbed me.”

“Well,” Rick says, shrugging out of his jacket and balling it up. “We did classify her as a risky asset due to the fact that she’s got family on the inside of the Russian mob and another one of her handlers ended up dead.”

Billy grunts in pain as Rick rolls him on his back and presses down against the wound. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Rick shakes his head. “No, uh,” he says. “I just...it’s not really surprising.”

Billy groans, head flopping back against the linoleum of the abandoned building where they’d been arranging meets. They’d been in town for two weeks building this relationship. Michael had had his reservations, but Billy had felt good about the correspondence. “The probabilities be damned,” Billy says with his eyes still squeezed shut. “It takes a certain kind of person to push a blade through someone’s flesh.”

“No offense, Billy,” Rick says, digging through his pocket to get his cell phone. “But I think maybe you misjudged this one.”

Billy’s eyes open, and they’re glassy with pain. He shakes his head tautly, face drawn grimly. “People deserve the benefit of the doubt.”

“She stabbed you,” Rick reminds him.

“What if she’d been found out, though? What if they were holding her brother for ransom? What if she had no choice?”

Rick presses a frantic text to Michael, blood smearing over the face. “But she stabbed you--”

“It’s not what we do, it’s _why,_ ” Billy says, hissing in pain as his legs writhe a little. “After all this time--”

“Oh, no,” Rick says. “You’re not going to lecture me now. You don’t get to play mentor when I’m the one saving your ass this time.”

Billy smiles weakly. “You’ll never learn it all,” he says, starting to relax, the tension slipping from his upper body. “Trust me…”

His eyes start to flutter and his head lolls. Fear wells up in Rick’s gut and he reaches out, phone still in hand, tapping Billy’s cheek. “Hey, hey, hey,” he says. “No sleeping, okay? Teach me the lesson, okay? You need to stay awake.”

Billy’s eyes open again, but they’re more unfocused now. Rick can feel Billy’s blood pumping against his hand. “Just remember,” he says, his accent heavier suddenly. “It’s not what we do--”

-o-

“--but _why,_ ” a gruff voice concludes, and it takes Rick a long moment to realize he’s not talking to Billy anymore. It takes an even longer moment to realize his eyes are open, and someone is looking him straight in the eye. “Why should I help you?”

This isn’t the kind of question anyone wants to be asked, not when the person asking is a notoriously drug dealer who kills indiscriminately and operates an insanely profitable criminal organization. Because it seems like the epitome of a rhetorical question in the worst possible way.

Not that Rick can speak anyway. The chills are too pronounced now, and his jaw is so rigid that he can no longer move it.

“I can neither confirm nor deny your identity,” the man continues with a casual shrug. “It is not in my nature to give second chances. I know some think me weak because I am younger than most, but I assure you, I did not ascend to this position by being weak, my friend.”

Rick doesn’t doubt it. Even if not for his current helpless state, he’s done all the research. You don’t have to spend years at something to be an expert. In the back of his mind, Rick thinks about paying him the compliment or at least trying to corroborate whatever story his team has pitched on the fly, but as it is, he’s having too much trouble breathing to do much of anything.

That doesn’t seem to matter, though. The man sighs. “I did not come here for business, though,” he says. “My mother, she did not always understand. Mothers are very protective.”

Protective, Rick tries to nod. His own mother would be apoplectic if she knew Rick were dying in South America.

Again.

“I have mostly accepted that I cannot always make her happy,” he continues. “I told myself that was okay, that my job came first. If I did not put myself first, no one would.”

That might be well and good in another profession.

Rick’s trembling with no sensation in his arms or legs. Consciousness is fleeting.

“But I buried my mother today,” he says. “No matter who they say I am, such things are not easy for me. It is only in times of need that we recognize the things that matter. I did not tell my mother how much I cared for her, and now it is too late.”

He pauses, thoughtfully. Rick would be inclined to indulge him were he actually able to breathe. As it is, he’s gasping now, expending every last ounce of energy to just stay alive.

“You are dying, too, my friend,” he says with a sad shake of his head. “Your friends, though. They care about you. They plead for your life. I do not know if they are liars, but I do know they risk much for your sake. Tell me, are they who they say you are?”

Rick inhales with a wheeze, his entire chest clenched in agony. There’s a vice on his inside, and his consciousness is waning past the point he knows how to control. But the mission.

“They are--” he starts, but falters badly, the words garbled and almost indistinguishable. “They’re everything--” he says, all in a rush, breathless in the wake. The blackness is rising for him, threatening to take him under. He feels tears well at the corners of his eyes, and his throat seizes as he starts to succumb to the pain. 

“The sentimentality is touching,” the man says with a rueful smile. “But you could all be liars and good men in equal turns. The question I keep coming back to on this day more than any other, is what actually matters? Does the job come first? Or do the bonds we form with those around us? It is a question of life and death, and there is so much death this does. One more life, one more death, it doesn’t--”

-o-

“--matter,” Michael says angrily as they pull Rick up off the floor. There’s still glass and broken wood everywhere, and Rick thinks about apologizing for the mess. He can’t quite find his voice, though, and he catches himself with a gasp as Billy and Casey help him another step.

“But if they come back,” Felipe says fretfully.

“The job is done,” Michael says. “Your shop is burned. I think it’s pretty safe to say we won’t be calling you again.”

“But--”

“But you’ve done your job,” Michael tells him. “That’s all we’re going to ask of you; it’s done.”

“The mission--”

“Our mission is no longer your mission,” Michael says. “You have my number, but don’t expect me to come running unless you’ve got something big.”

It’s not quite callous, but it’s a far cry from sympathetic, and Rick wants to stop and turn back. Felipe is just a scared kid; he’s in over his head; this isn’t his fault.

But seeing as Rick’s still bleeding and unable to walk on his own, he doesn’t have much choice but to keep walking.

Outside, he lifts his head. “It wasn’t his fault,” he says.

Michael is ahead of them, opening the van. “No,” he says. “But he’s not a part of this anymore.”

“But he’s right,” Rick pants, holding back a cry as his leg hits upon the ground. “The mission--”

“Look,” Michael says. “We know you haven’t been on the team very long, but you should know something about us now. It’s not always about _the mission._ ”

Rick frowns. “But we went against Higgins--”

“He said it’s not _always_ about the mission,” Casey corrects.

“Or perhaps not the mission you’re thinking about,” Billy adds.

They ease Rick into the back of the van, and he tries to position himself on the seat in a way that doesn’t result in agony. It’s not very successful. “You guys risked everything to be here. You put everything on the table.”

Billy and Casey exchange a look. Michael’s face is stony. “Not everything.”

Billy pats his arm. “Something to talk about later,” he says. “Right now, I reckon we ought to save your life.”

Rick is still confused.

“If we’ll go all this way for a kid we hardly know, what do you think we won’t do for one of our own?” Casey asks. “It’s not rocket science.”

“No,” Michael says, getting into the driver’s seat. “It’s just teamwork.”

The engine rumbles to life, and Rick winces as he tries fruitlessly to get comfortable. “And if this doesn’t work?”

Michael adjusts the mirrors. “Trust us,” he says. “We’ll make it--”

-o-

“--work,” someone is saying in broken English. “You must live.”

Another person mutters a curse in Spanish. Rick tries to open his eyes, but it’s too much effort. He’s burning now, flames licking through his vein and searing into his brain. His very heart is on fire and he’s choking on the smoke.

He doesn’t know much, but he knows he’s alone. The people around him are strangers, and the absence of his teammates is glaringly clear to him.

He’s dying, but that part scares him more than all the rest.

“Please,” the first voice says. “You must live, for all of us. The medicine -- is it?”

Another voice responds, the Spanish succinct and to the point. Someone spreads a cool cloth over his forehead, but Rick’s too miserable for it to do much good. It’s like a drop of water on a raging inferno, and it’s not enough--

“The venom is strong,” the first says. 

“He is young--”

“We are far too late--”

“Will he live?”

Rick seizes, his body convulsing. It’s too much; far too much. And he’s alone; he’s so horribly _alone--_

“Maybe,” the first voice says. “But I do not -- I just can not -- I do not--”

-o-

“--know,” Rick protests to no one in particular. He’s tired and he’s frustrated and no one seems to listen to him. “One second, I feel like it all makes sense, the next I’m right back at square one where I started three years ago.”

Michael frowns at him, as if he’s genuinely disappointed. “Have we ever let you down when you were really in need?”

“Yes!” Rick says, for the thousandth time. “Yes, yes and yes. Because you guys are still assuming you know what I need, and you’re always assuming that you’re right even when you’re not. I can’t spend the rest of my career being the new guy.”

“It’s suicide, Martinez,” Michael continues with a shake of his head. “You can’t _do it._ ”

“Can’t what?” Rick asks. “Be a spy? Do the job I was trained to do?”

“Remember who’s in charge,” Michael reminds him.

“Like you remember that Higgins’ is in charge? Like you remember that there’s a hierarchy at all?” Rick all but yells. He throws his arms out. “You can’t pick and choose everything.”

Casey shrugs. “This one,” he says with a nod. “It’s going to be all on you.”

“Which one?” Rick asks. “And how am I ever supposed to know? When will you guys ever just let me in?”

Billy purses his lips. “It’s not what we do, it’s _why._ ”

“Why?” Rick asks. “You mean you’re not just doing this to torture me? Give me a little breathing room and then pull it away? Make me do all the hard work and then pull me out at the last second? I am an integral part of our missions--”

“It’s not always about the _mission,_ ” Michael says with a strange tilt of his head, as if Rick should know this by now. As if Rick should understand.

But Rick doesn’t understand. All he knows is that he’s put in three good years, and he’s still the rookie. All he knows is that his team is the best at what they do and damn near impossible to make sense of. All he knows is that they’ll always do the right thing but in all the wrong ways. 

“I can do this,” Rick insists. “I’m already doing this.”

His team looks at him, though. Almost apologetic.

“What?” Rick demands. “Tell me what I’m missing!”

But his team starts to fade, growing smaller and fainter from in front of his eyes. 

“No, you can’t do this,” Rick says. “You can’t take me this far and then leave me without answers!”

That’s what they do, of course. And Rick’s not surprised, but he’s frustrated. So damn frustrated that he can hardly think. It pounds between his ears, pulsing with his heart, the injustice of it all. The complete idiocy of it all. Three years, and this is what he has. Three years, and he’s proven himself to everyone but the three people who matter most.

He realizes now where he’s at; he’s at a funeral but the open casket shows himself inside, face gray and drawn with his hands folded. His team is wearing plain black suits and simple ties. They look older, worn down. Michael’s eyes are dull, and there is no smile on Billy’s face. Casey walks stooped over just a little as they stop by the casket.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says.

“It shouldn’t have been you,” Billy murmurs.

“There are some things we can’t fight,” Casey concludes.

Then, they bow their heads and look down as they turn toward the aisle and walk out.

Gaping, Rick stands at the foot of the casket, cold ice in the pit of his stomach now. He’s lightheaded, lighter still. As if he could float away.

The rest of the mourners come, and the little old ladies tut. “Our roots,” they say with a disparaging glance at Rick’s corpse, “are what make us strong.”

Adele comes last, reaching out and grasping his limp fingers. “They might treat you like the new guy for a lot of reasons,” she murmurs. “Just be sure you want this because you want a new role. Not a new role on your team.”

She presses a kiss to his hand and then lets go.

When she leaves, Rick’s the only one left. He stands next to the casket and looks down at himself. He’s too young to be dead. In everything, he never thought--

The ODS always wins.

Except, it seems, when they don’t.

Rick’s not ready, though. He may never be ready.

He shakes his head, the protest forming in the back of his throat. “No,” he says, breathing starting to quicken. “No, no, no, no.”

No one can hear him; no one is left to listen. Desperation builds, and panic blossoms in his chest. “No!” he yells. “Not yet! For the love of God--”

-o-

“--not yet,” he says, the words on his lips as he startles awake.

This time, though, he’s really awake. His head is a little fuzzy, and everything hurts but he’s struck with the sudden clarity that he’s been missing. Time has passed, though he’s not sure how much, and the last clear thing he knows is that he was bit by a snake.

The memory jars him, and he sits up with a shock, looking down at his arm as if he still expects the snake to be wriggling there.

It’s not. It’s _not._

The shock of that is a bit overwhelming, and it takes Rick another long moment to comprehend what the clean white bandage probably indicates.

That’s he’s alive. That he’s okay. That somehow he got bitten by a poisonous snake in the Amazon rainforest with no supplies and no backup and managed to survive.

The ODS has a knack for the impossible, but this seems exceptional, even for them.

The fever is mostly gone, and if he feels a little hot, it’s nothing he can’t attribute to the forest heat. He has full feeling in his limbs, and while his mouth is dry and his lips are cracked, he doesn’t feel _that_ bad. Tired, sore, but really mostly hungry.

But food isn’t really the issue. As Rick blinks a few times, he vaguely recognizes the room. It’s not the hotel, obviously, and it’s no other place Rick knows from the mission as he’d planned it. Still, he’s seen it before, and he knows it, but he’s not sure why. 

Then again, he’s fairly confident that most of what he’s experienced over the last few hours (or days) has been hallucinations. 

Most, but not all. Because the dirt floors and simple structure are familiar. He remembers his team here with him; he remembers men with medicine.

He remembers a vicious drug dealer taking pity on him.

Rick’s stomach sinks with sudden trepidation.

Of everything, he’d probably hoped that part was a hallucination more than the rest. That his team hadn’t risked everything and taken him to the village with some half-baked cover story and a desperate plea for mercy from a man who killed his way to the top of a cartel by the age of 35.

With difficulty, Rick sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of his cot. The room spins for a moment, and when he finally gets his legs beneath him, his vision dims precariously. He takes a few staggering steps, and when he peaks out the door, what he sees confirms his worst fears.

Not that he’s been bitten by a snake and almost died.

But that he’s in a village controlled by a maniac and his team is nowhere to be found.


	3. Chapter 3

Though decidedly more self aware, Rick’s still pretty weak. The short walk to the door has left him spent, and though his immediate impulse is to flee, he hardly has the energy.

Beside, it wouldn’t exactly be smart. The ODS throws together some ridiculous plans on the fly, but they always have a plan.

Rick needs a plan.

This is his mission. This is his plan.

This is his.

Wobbling, he makes his way back to the cot, half collapsing onto it. Panting, he can feel sweat beading on his forehead as he struggles to catch his breath.

This is bad.

This is very, very bad.

There’s risky and then there’s stupid. His team dragged him to the village and threw themselves at the mercy of a drug dealer. They probably compromised their cover and put the entire mission in jeopardy. In fact, there’s a decent chance that they’re already dead.

Then again, Rick’s still alive. For whatever reason, he was given the antivenom, which means there’s a possibility that their cover story is in order and that Hernandez has been taken in a rare moment of compassion.

If all is truly well, however, Rick suspects he wouldn’t be sitting in this room alone. No, the absence of his team is telling, and with armed men still patrolling the village, it’s very likely that this isn’t over yet.

To the contrary, Rick fears it’s just beginning.

Even with all this, Rick’s not sure what he can do. Physically, he’s drained. Emotionally, he’s all over the map. Most importantly, he simply doesn’t have the intelligence he needs to make an appropriate and informed decision.

He’s so transfixed with this predicament that he doesn’t hear the person at the door until the latch starts to slide. Surprised as he is, there’s not much time to prep himself, so he settles for a bleak, disarming look while the person enters.

Dressed in unassuming clothing, the woman bows her head toward him, stepping forward with a tray of food and a glass of water. She puts it on the small table by his cot and is moving out the door before Rick can think of anything to ask her. It feels a bit like a lost opportunity, but the girl is clearly not part of this operation. If anything, she’s a local. She deserves to be here less than Rick does.

It’s just as well, because as she ducks back out the door, two armed guards enter with Rodrigo Hernandez right behind.

-o-

Rodrigo Hernandez is not a particularly imposing man. He’s not the biggest or the most polished. In fact, next to the men with machine guns, he looks strangely diminutive, but Rick’s read his file.

Hell, Rick _made_ his file.

He rose from the ranks from almost nowhere. His tenure has been short and furious, starting as a low level deputy five years ago and rising to the top within the last two. He’s a self-made man, brilliant and highly teachable. He’s learned the best from all his teachers -- before he had them killed.

Rodrigo Hernandez is evidence that age isn’t superior. He’s a shining example of how experience does not need to accumulate for years to mean something. He’s the new guy who overcame that position and became something better.

He’s impressive.

He’s terrifying.

For one second, Rick indulges that terror.

Then, he smiles. “I feel like I probably owe you a thank you,” he says, climbing back to his feet. “I’d introduce myself but I have a feeling you already know me a lot better than I know you.”

His approach is flawless; his execution is perfect. If Hernandez is going to have an equal, Rick’s going to play that part as best he can.

Hernandez inclines his head slightly, entering a few steps farther. “You have been quite ill, my friend.”

Rick lifts his arm sheepishly. “I never saw it coming.”

“No,” Hernandez muses. “I do not suppose you did. Most people do not.”

“Well,” Rick says with a smile. “I have to admit, that far out, I thought I was a goner.”

“You very nearly were,” Hernandez says. “Your friends brought you here, begging mercy.”

Rick sobers appropriately. “We can pay you,” he says. “Our company, we’re insured--”

Hernandez waves a hand through the air. “I do not seek such compensation,” he says. “I am here in my own time of need. Loss can make us kindred.”

Rick knows exactly what he’s talking about, but he’s not about to admit it. He shakes his head, feigning confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

A small smile plays on Hernandez’s lips. “Tell me, my friend,” he says with a sincerity Rick almost believes. “Who are you? Why do you come so far out into the wilderness?”

This is a test, and Rick knows it. It’s possible that several days have passed, and even if it’s only been several hours, a man like Hernandez isn’t going to let four strangers wander into his camp without asking questions. His team has a cover story in place, and if Hernandez suspects anything, he’ll be looking for flaws in the delivery.

In short, Rick has to get all the details right. He has to put together the relevant facts from his venom-inspired hallucinations and hope to hell he gets it right.

If he gets it wrong, then all this is probably for nothing. He’ll be dead, and his team will be, too.

The only option, therefore, is just to get it right.

Rick smiles effortlessly. “Adam Helios,” he says, extending a hand. When Hernandez doesn’t take it, he lets it fall with a shrug. “Part of Last Chance Productions. We focus mostly on important environmental causes. Our biggest success was a documentary on the melting of the Arctic Circle.”

He’s pushing it, and he knows it. Too many details means there are plenty of things to get wrong. But Rick knows his team, and he knows how to sell a cover story out of absolutely nothing.

“Funny,” Hernandez says. “Your teammates told me of their shoot in Africa last year and called it their best work.”

Rick snorts. “Of course they did,” he says. “We made it big in Europe with that one, and it paid royalties. But the Arctic Circle -- that’s the one that made a difference. It may get picked up by Public Broadcasting back in the States.”

Hernandez nods idly. “Last Chance Productions?” he asks.

There’s a horrible second when Rick thinks he’s got it wrong. When he thinks he’s confused reality with hallucination and he’s just blown everything.

That just one second, though. In the midst of three years.

Rick nods soberly. “The way we use this earth and ignore the consequences. It’s like cutting trees from their roots and watching the whole thing die,” he says. “This is our last chance, I think. We just have to be smart enough to see it.”

“And smarter still to do something about it,” Hernandez muses.

“Are you an environmentalist?” Rick asks.

Hernandez chuckles. “Not in so many words,” he says. “I value nature, though, and respect the things it gives us. Nature is entirely honest, after all. It is the only thing we can trust. People, on the other hand, they are duplicitous and dark.”

The conversation is taking a turn, and Hernandez is revealing something. This is no longer a roundabout interrogation. Hernandez has asked his questions, and Rick’s given his answers.

Which means it’s time for a reckoning.

Rick swallows, shifting awkwardly.

Something settles in Hernandez’s face, and his smile soften ominously. “Your friends have told me much the same story,” he says.

“Well, we’ve been together for a while,” Rick says. “Three years, actually. It’s not exactly a business where you make a lot of friends, doing what we do. So I can say how grateful I am, how grateful we all are, really.”

“Three years,” Hernandez says with a slow nod. “They are friends indeed, then.”

“You have no idea,” Rick replies.

Hernandez offers him a cold smile. “Friendship is not so difficult. Friends are merely enemies you have impressed. I have many friends, Senor Helios.”

Rick lets himself stiffen, reminding himself that a little fear would be appropriate for a wayward film crew lost in the Amazon. “If there’s anything I can do--”

“You have given your answers,” Hernandez says. “I believe it is my turn.”

“Your turn?” Rick hedges.

“Friends are honest with each other, Senor Helios,” Hernandez says. “I have given you the benefit of the doubt and given you a cure and shelter, but my kindness is not exhaustive and it is not without its needs. If we are to part ways as friends, I must be sure that you are worthy of the title.”

“Um,” Rick says. “Okay--”

Hernandez lets out a small laugh. “You need not fear,” he says. “I would not hurt a recovering man.”

“Can I see my friends maybe?” Rick asks.

“Your friends are not recovering,” Hernandez replies. “Did you know that I buried my mother today?”

Rick lets his face register surprise. “Oh, I’m so sorry--”

Hernandez nods. “It was difficult for me. I loved my mother very much. I did not enjoy her funeral,” he explains.

“Of course not--”

Hernandez doesn’t let him finish. “Her funeral was difficult,” he continues heedlessly. “Another one -- another four, even -- would not be. I do not grieve for friends the way I do family. As for enemies -- well, I do not grieve for them at all.”

Rick blinks, and reminds himself that the cold terror running through his veins is entirely natural. He’s being threatened, and no matter if he’s a filmmaker or a spy, this is reason to be scared. “If I could just get my things--”

“Rest well, Senor Helios,” Hernandez says with no further debate as he heads to the door. “If you think of something else I should know, feel free to let me know.”

With that, Hernandez is gone, leaving one of the armed men behind. Rick stares for a moment, but the man doesn’t so much as look at him.

Awkwardly, Rick sits back down on the bed. The food and water is still there, but he’s not hungry anymore.

Now is no time to eat.

No, Rick thinks as he looks at the man by the door, now is the time to plan.

-o-

The good news is that Rick has time to think.

He’s recovering from a near fatal snake bite, so while he’s under the watch of an armed guard, there seems to be no immediate demands on his time or attention. Someone checks his wounds and listens to his heart -- a doctor, Rick presumes, making note of the face and other important physical features -- and he finally lets himself eat and drink as much as they will feed him before laying back on his bed, presumably to rest.

Rick doesn’t sleep, though.

There’s too much to consider.

And that’s really where the bad news starts.

And pretty much doesn’t stop.

Hernandez is suspicious. This is to be expected, given his profession. This is also why Rick had planned this mission to avoid a direct confrontation with the man or any of his contemporaries. Infiltrating this type of operation is a multi-year process, and without complete knowledge of the command structure, even attempting it would probably be suicide. Rick had always suspected that any kind of actual contact with Hernandez would end in disaster because a man in his position doesn’t stay in his position by being unassuming with chance encounters.

In short, Hernandez is going to think everyone is out to get him. Whether he thinks they’re spies or plants from the competition, it’s pretty hard to say, but ultimately it doesn’t matter. It’s pretty clear what Hernandez will do with enemies.

It’s also probably pretty clear why that cemetery in a remote village is so damn full.

Although that’s disconcerting, the likelihood that Hernandez wants to kill them isn’t actually the biggest problem. The problem also isn’t the fact that their cover isn’t going to hold.

And it’s not going to hold. There’s no way it can hold. CIA covers are made with the utmost care and precision. It’s not just about everyone telling the same lie with such ease that people want to believe you; it’s about having verifiable facts to back up those lies. That’s why there are entire departments dedicated to taking cover phone calls. Because criminals and terrorists don’t generally take your word for anything. They like to make sure.

Rick’s planned extensively for his mission, but every detail he’s put in place has not been for a team of filmmakers. There is no record with the CIA of a team of filmmakers called Last Chance Productions. Even if Michael has done something genius and passed along Fay’s private number or Adele’s, there’s no way Hernandez is going to be stupid enough to provide enough information on an initial call to corroborate the story. Plus, there’s no fictional anything. There’s no website, there’s no listing of their past titles on IMdb.

There’s nothing there to back up their story because it’s not a story they prepared for. It won’t take much to confirm Hernandez’s doubts, and it probably won’t take long. 

In fact, Rick’s slowly putting together the passage of time and has mostly deduced that at least several days have passed. It hasn’t been a week, as best he can tell, but given the amount of weight he’s lost and the healing on the bites, it’s safe to say he’s been out of it for a while.

Which means that his team has been milking this cover story for as long as they can. Chances are, they’ve given out defunct phone numbers, which is a great way to prolong things since it confirms and denies nothing. However, it does seed more doubt.

That probably explains why Hernandez was so passive aggressive. He’s been asking questions and getting answers he can’t back up. The threats are veiled to Rick, but he suspects they’re a bit more than that with the rest of his team. Hernandez had been explicit about not hurting a recovering man.

So three men spinning stories?

Rick’s too aware that this likely implies his teammates are undergoing a more aggressive interrogation. He remembers vague snippets of punches and gunshots, but there’s no way to know if those things actually happened or not.

Regardless, even if his team is currently safe, they won’t stay that way long. The lies will be confirmed soon enough, and then the mission will be over.

Rick always planned this mission to be his last with the ODS. Now it stands to possibly be the last mission for the ODS -- period.

Except, there’s one point left, and it may be the best news yet: this mission’s not over yet.

Rick’s alive and recovering. His team’s alive.

All he needs to do is escape, mount a rescue, all while in a remote village occupied by a drug cartel.

And it all starts with Rick.

-o-

As far as plans go, Rick’s really not having his best mission. His original plan, which had been good, hadn’t turned out at all. His secondary plan, which really should have worked, had ended with him being bit by a poisonous snake.

For his third plan, he’s scraping the bottom of the barrel. He’s got no leverage, no backup, and no idea what he’s actually dealing with. All things considered, it’s just about par for the course.

Except for the part where Rick has no idea how he’s going to pull it off.

He just knows he’s going to.

The alternative simply isn’t acceptable.

So his plan is this: disable the guard, sneak out of his hut, explore the village, find his team, break his team out, and leave together.

This plan is, of course, contingent on a number of factors. First, he has to knock out an armed guard without causing a scene. Then, somehow he has to sneak out and move around a village filled with armed guards in order to find his team. He has to hope his team is being held together, and he has no way of knowing their condition. Then, he has to somehow get them all out of the village and into the jungle where they have to hope for rescue.

Rick makes a mental note. He has to somehow steal a phone, too. Otherwise it’s going to be a long walk back.

If he makes too much noise overthrowing his guard, he’ll have the whole village on him. If he is seen by anyone outside, he’ll be subdued within minutes. If his team is too spread out or too hurt, someone will probably notice he’s missing before he can successfully secure them all. If he can’t get them out of the village unnoticed, they’ll be overrun within minutes even if they make it to the rainforest.

It’s ambitious.

But Rick’s been doing this for three years. He’s good at this kind of thing.

At least, he thinks so.

It’s probably about time to find out.

-o-

The first thing he needs to do is disable the guard.

As far as things go, that’s pretty straightforward. Except for the fact that the man has a gun and is significantly larger than Rick. Rick is also recovering from a near fatal snake bite, and every time he gets up, the blood rushing to his head makes him dizzy.

He thinks about what Casey would do. Casey doesn’t have size on his side, and while he’s quick and surprisingly strong, he’s also not stupid. There’s no way to sneak up on a man with his back to the door, which means the best way to get the advantage is to make one.

Rick doesn’t have much, but he does have a pathetic, sickly disposition, and he is recovering after almost dying. Approaching the guard in any form will likely set off alarms, but if he can get the guard to approach him--

Well, that’s the sort of thing that would make the ODS proud.

It takes planning, like Michael. It takes finesse, like Billy. And it takes sheer strength, like Casey.

Fortunately, Rick has all three.

On top of that, he’s the new guy -- and he looks like it. A bit of doe eyed need can go a long way.

He shuffles on the bed, making no secret of trying to get up. He moans, flailing blindly, as if looking for the glass of water he knows is empty. When he lifts it, he lets his hand shake, and he whimpers pathetically as he tries to put it back on the side table. With uncoordinated movement, he jars his hand, sending the glass to the ground. It clatters, skittering away, and Rick stifles a cry and tries to sit up.

As he reaches forward, he throws his balance off, sending himself head first off the cot. The force is enough to tip the small bed, until he’s in a mess on the floor.

It’s quite the act -- a bit too much, if Rick had to say so himself, but he’s learned that it’s pretty hard to oversell this sort of thing. He has to appear completely helpless and pathetic to motivated an armed guard to momentarily abandon his post.

Looking up, he groans again. When he sees that the man is still hesitating in the entryway, Rick grits his teeth and takes it to the next level. Propping himself up on his hands and knees, he attempts to stand before curling in on himself with a mewl of agony. Desperate, he flings himself back, contorting his body in rigid angles while letting his stricken face stay plainly visible.

If pathetic won’t do it, abject pain very well could. The man may not have much compassion, but he does care if Rick lives or dies because Rick’s well being is partly his objective at the time being. Rick’s banking on the idea that the man probably doesn’t want to explain to his boss, the violent criminal, why a captive has died under his watch.

And it pays off.

He hears the shuffle of the man’s feet, and when he glimpses through slitted eyes, he sees the man has slung his gun behind him with both hands out to help as he bends over.

Which is the only opening Rick’s going to need.

It’s also the only opening he needs.

With quick movements, Rick flings himself up, grabbing the man’s outstretched hand and yanking him to the ground. He hits with an oof face first, and Rick rotates quickly, pressing himself on top of the other man and wrapping an arm around his throat as efficiently as possible. The man makes a strangled noise and bucks, but Rick has the leverage now and he bears down with unrelenting pressure. Within seconds, the man starts to weaken, and Rick holds on long enough for the other man to go completely limp.

Breathless, he released the hold and staggers up. The man beneath him doesn’t move, which is good since Rick feels more than a little light headed after the exertion. Still, he has the presence of mind to take two zip ties out of the man’s pocket -- meant for Rick, no doubt, in case of emergency -- and quickly applies them to the man’s wrists and ankles, looping one to the sole working water pipe that is coming out of the ground in the center of the room. He rips a makeshift gag from a bed sheet, stuffing enough inside his mouth to mute him without choking him.

Standing back, it looks good. The man won’t be out long from a simple blood choke, but hopefully with the extra measures, Rick has bought himself a few minutes. A half hour, if he’s extremely lucky. The man won’t be able to go anywhere, and he won’t be able to call for help, which means someone will have to come by and check before they figure out what’s happened.

That could be minutes, but it is usually at least an hour between visitors, sometimes more. Rick can only hope that with the mid-afternoon lull, he’ll be expected to rest without interruption. That way, he’ll have enough time to search the compound and find his team before things get dicey.

At least, that’s the plan as it currently stands.

If it doesn’t work out--

Well, it’s too late to think about that now.

Now, it’s time to act.

And that’s just what Rick intends to do.

-o-

After securing the guard, Rick moves as quickly as he can to the door. Peeking out the front, he ducks back down immediately. The village is small, and worse than that, it’s crowded. Whatever entourage Hernandez has brought with him, it’s clearly maxed out the village’s normal capacity for guests. On the one hand, this means there aren’t a lot of places to keep the rest of the ODS. On the other, it means Rick’s not exactly going to have an easy time blending in.

Clearly, a direct escape is basically suicide.

Chewing his lip, he makes his way to the back of the hut. There’s no door or window, so he moves into the added on bathroom, which is little more than a spigot and a hole in the ground. He takes a moment to peek through the cracks, noting with some amount of relief that there’s nothing back there -- just open space before the start of the treeline. 

Rick feels along the walls at the back, pressing against them experimentally. This room is clearly a recent addition, and it’s not like the construction of any of the house is all that impressive. No doubt, this is a quick lean-to built by Hernandez’s team to accommodate the influx of people for the burial.

With that working assumption, Rick takes a breath and kicks. The sound of his boot against the wood is painfully loud, but he refuses to be deterred. He kicks again, a bit harder now, and the wood starts to give. With a third kick, it splinters. After a fourth, there’s a small hole, just big enough to crawl out.

It’s not exactly an impressive escape -- Rick’s basically crawling out the back of a toilet -- but he’ll take what he can get. Besides, he’s been around Billy long enough to know a thing or two about embellishment. A few choice words and a creative retelling, and this will be one hell of a story to tell his teammates when they get back home.

First things first, though. 

Rick has to find them.

-o-

Rick makes it about ten feet before he remembers just how much his body has been through. He’s underfed, probably a little dehydrated, and the effects of the venom can still be felt lacing through his muscles. He’s weak, and he’s easily winded, and he’s already overpowered one guard and kicked his way out of his room.

Needless to say, Rick’s a little tired.

Better put, Rick’s exhausted. He wants to sleep more than he can articulate, and it seems like he hasn’t had a chance to rest in the entire three years he’s been with the ODS.

Given the fact that he’s an escaped quasi-prisoner with a very narrow window of opportunity, that rest is going to have to wait.

He moves as fast as he can, trying to keep his feet light as he sneaks from one building to the next. He pauses at corners, a little to catch his breath, but also to scope out the rest of the scene as best he can.

The village is even smaller than he thought, and from his vantage point outside the hut, it’s clear there’s not many places to actually hide. Armed guards are milling about, and those who seem to be local scurry about without looking up. A few kids dare to chase a ball through the streets, but their mothers hush them back into the house. 

It takes a few minutes, but Rick’s able to get a lay of the land pretty quickly. The west part of the village is clearly the older part with houses that look more organic and well cared for. Those are the people who actually live in the village. The eastern half, which is better organized and more efficiently laid out, has clapboard shakes and rudimentary signs of running water. The men are more heavily concentrated to this side, but it’s pretty clear those are the buildings Hernandez has added.

It becomes clear that this is not some slipshod production put on by Hernandez. This isn’t just where he wants to bury his mother or even where he was born. This is actually Hernandez’s home base, as best Rick can tell. The scope of the infrastructure is too expansive to be solely for a funeral, and it’s not exactly brand new.

Hernandez never forgot his roots, he’s just been building something entirely new on top of them. 

Which means, well, this is huge. This discovery is huge. They’ve been trying -- and failing -- to pin down Hernandez for months, and he’s here. He’s been here all along. Literally building himself from nothing in his own backyard. Production is likely occurring elsewhere, but this is probably the business hub of the operation.

And Rick’s found it.

He spares a moment for giddy relief -- and pure exhaustion. As much as he’d like to wallow in this victory by taking a good nap, he still has to get out of here if the intel is going to be worth anything at all.

Narrowing his eyes, he looks over the grounds once more, focusing his attention on the east half of the village. Most of the buildings seem to be well occupied, with people coming and going. Some have open doors; others have open windows.

Except one.

There’s one near the graveyard, on the far side of the road. The door is closed, and there are no windows. A pair of guards flank the door.

Either Hernandez is really concerned about his paperwork, or there’s something inside that hut that he doesn’t want people to get into.

Or, more accurately, that he doesn’t want to see get out.

Like three hostages of unknown origin.

Of course, they could be in separate locations, but none of the other huts fit the bill. No, that’s the only one that makes any sense, and Rick feels good about his logic.

That’s the one.

Rick takes a breath, and lets it out.

That’s the next place he needs to go.

And he needs to go there now.

Before he gets caught or passes out.  
 _  
Now.  
_  
-o-

He moves before he has a chance to really think about it. If he stops, he may never start again -- the desire to sleep is pretty damn strong at this point. It doesn’t even have to be sleep. Rick would be pretty satisfied just sprawling out on the dirt and staring at the sky.

But that would probably get him killed, so rest is probably not the best idea.

Not that moving through the village is really all that much smarter. He moves as far as he can behind the rows of houses, approaching the building he’s identified from the back. It takes longer this way, but it seems like the best approach in terms of not getting caught.

Still, he knows there’s a man who’s probably coming to back in his own building, and Rick’s time is limited before he gets loose or someone finds him there.

Rick pushes himself, moving his legs as fast as he’s able, pulling to a stop behind each building and peeking around the edge to make sure the coast is clear before he bolts again. It goes surprisingly well, really. The guards are alert, but they’re not exactly looking for an escaped man. For most of them, this is probably just another day in the office. Rick knows what happens when you work for someone who is a paranoid bastard: you either stop caring or you care too much.

For Rick, it was the latter.

For these men -- hired guns without many other prospects -- it’s probably the former.

This doesn’t bode well for their career advancement, but it does increase Rick’s probability of not dying a horrific and painful death within the next ten minutes.

Assuming he doesn’t die from a heart attack first.

The village isn’t large, but his jog around the exterior is taking its toll. He’s sweating through his shirt, and his heart is pounding so loud that he can barely hear anything else. Breathing is more than a little difficult because it feels like there’s a vice around his chest.

Apparently snake venom can be pretty hard to recover from.

Rick doesn’t have time for that, though. The muscles in his legs are burning, and his vision is a little hazy as he makes his way around the last couple of buildings. He has to wait for a few men to walk by before he finally stumbles his way to the building in question.

Mercifully, it’s on the perimeter, which means Rick doesn’t have to risk leap frogging into any of the interior spaces. He’s so relieved that he half collapses to the ground, just barely keeping himself from thunking heavily against the backside.

As it is, he still needs a minute to catch his breath.

Maybe more.

On his knees, he lets his head drop to the ground and almost cries because he’s so tired. He’s done some crazy things before, but this--

This is probably the craziest. It’s a remote village surrounded by the rainforest, occupied by a drug dealer who is probably hours away from deeming their cover a complete a total fraud. Rick’s overpowered his guard and is attempting to break out three men from under observation all while trying -- and somewhat failing -- to recover from a near lethal snake bite.

This has to be his last mission with the ODS; there’s no way he can top it.

Assuming, of course, he survives.

Either way, it’s the last mission.

He’s still breathing so heavily that he almost misses the hush of voices coming from the other side of the clapboard walls.

Almost.

Alert again, he sits up, leaning closer to try to listen more clearly. The voices are low -- clearly meant to be private -- so it’s hard to make out. But the words, the cadence -- it’s not Spanish.

It’s English.

Hernandez speaks English, and presumably so would some of his deputies, but conversational English in private? Rick doubts that.

No, this is where the ODS is being held.

Rick’s found them.

Rick’s found his team.

He almost laughs, just barely choking it back into a small grunt of joy. 

That’s when he hears the unmistakable sound of a gun’s safety being unlocked.

Rick freezes, turning his head back until he sees the armed man, coming in from the treeline.

With a gun pointed straight at Rick.

-o-

There always seems to be a point, in every mission, when someone is being held at gunpoint. It doesn’t seem to matter where they go or what they are doing -- tripping up some type of local security is practically a given. Rick should have expected it.

Except he’s been so busy not passing out that he let himself get distracted. It’s not his fault; he got bitten by a snake, not that anyone will care if he ends up dead.

Dying isn’t the plan, though.

Rescuing his team is the plan. He’s so close now -- he’s not going to let one guard stop him.

The man barks at him in Spanish, and Rick only has a split second to decide his best course of action. He has to play to his strengths.

Rather, at the moment, his weaknesses.

He exaggerates his breathing, trying to get to his feet. He stumbles, and blinks his eyes, letting his head roll loosely on his neck. “Where am I--” he slurs, trying to look sufficiently dazed. “I don’t--”

As he gets closer to the man, he takes a chance and starts to flop forward, hoping against hope that the man has an ounce of compassion and spares him from a face plant.

There’s a curse in Spanish, and Rick’s downward momentum is thwarted right before he hits the ground. It’s still an awkward fall, and he flutters his eyelids, catching a glimpse of the man, looking especially put out. But he’s holding Rick with both hands, which means the gun has been put to the side.

On the ground, in a holster, on the back -- Rick doesn’t know. All that matters is that it’s not pointed at his head.

Rick tries not to smile as he opens his eyes and springs into an attack.

He’s not up to full strength or speed, but the element of surprise is certainly in his favor. He rams himself upward, slamming his head beneath the man’s chin. The force topples them both, and the man lands solidly on the ground. Rick gets to his feet with a stagger -- it’s not act this time -- and he’s blinking away the spots in his vision when his legs are swiped out from under him.

It’s his turn to hit the ground hard, and the jarring impact blackens his vision for a moment. Even dazed, though, he’s aware that he’s under attack, and he kicks out with all he has.

And for once in this mission, he gets lucky. He makes contact, not too high, not too low.

Just where it needs to be.

The man grunts and wheezes, toppling forward in obvious pain. Rick’s vision is starting to clear, just in time to see the man’s red face in his line of vision. 

Perfectly poised for one last hit across the face. Rick balls his fist and rears back, aiming just the way Casey taught him to optimize the force of the impact and induce immediate and lasting unconsciousness--

And he lands the punch.

It’s flawlessly placed, if a little weak, but it’s more than a enough for the man’s face to go blank before he slumps to the ground.

Panting, Rick tries to catch his breath, listening keenly for sounds of anyone approaching. But it’s still quiet, the normal sounds of the village over the noise from the jungle nearby. On the ground, the man is sprawled and unconscious.

Success, Rick thinks.

Not that it’s enough.

With the ODS, nothing is _ever_ enough.

-o-

As much as Rick would like to pass out, he figures finishing this mission is probably a better option. He’s gotten this far, so leaving his team behind would be pretty stupid.

Bent over the guard, he takes the gun before moving back to the hut. Leaning close, he wills his heart to stop pounding so he can listen for any sound. It’s quieter now -- the hushed voices have stopped -- and there’s nothing but eerie silence from within.

There are two possibilities -- at least, two likely possibilities. First, it’s possible that in the time it’s taken Rick to not die, his team has been moved. Second, his team may have heard the scuffle and, for lack of information, have decided to be quiet and try to learn more. 

Rick’s banking on the second option pretty hard. At this point, if that’s not the case, then the whole thing is completely screwed.

Rick closes his eyes and takes a moment to breath. Things would be more screwed. Because it’s not like things have gone so well so far.

Still, Rick hesitates, mentally confirming that guards had been stationed outside the room. This means there are probably none positioned inside as well. 

At least, that’s what Rick hopes as he taps a light message in morse code at the back of the hut. _ODS._

He waits a moment, holding his breath as more sweat collects on his brow line. He considers tapping again, but then he hears a small shuffling before there’s a muted tapped reply. _Rick._

Rick grins, and then taps again. _Clear?_

This time, there’s no delay. _Do it._

It figures that they’re giving him an order, when he’s the one doing the rescuing. Rick’s a bit too relieved to care at the moment, and the prospect of chewing them out via morse code simply seems impractical.

Besides, he’s faced with a more daunting task: getting his team out.

He’s identified the hut; he’s subdued the guard; he’s made contact.

But his team is still in a guarded hut and Rick has no convenient entry point. Any noise would likely be noticed -- the guards on the outside are surely not that inept -- and so Rick has to find some way to get them out without attracting attention.

All of which is easier said than done.

He has to think.

He just has to think.

He’s a good spy. He’s a really good spy. He can do this.

He _will._

His eyes widen, and he turns. The man is still unconscious on the ground, and Rick goes back to him. Even stripped of his gun, Rick highly doubts the man is unarmed. He finds another gun in a holster at his hip, but a further search reveals a blade tucked next to it. Hastily, Rick pulls it out, holding it up. It’s not too big, but it’s definitely not small. The blade is thick and sturdy with thick striations grooved into the metal. 

Rick glances back toward the hut, remembering the thin walls of his own such hut. The wood isn’t exactly high quality, which means it broke easily under Rick’s pressure.

Which means it should, in theory, cut decently, too.

Hurrying back, Rick gives the hut a quick look over, noting that this one doesn’t even have a makeshift bathroom. No doubt, his friends have been kept in significantly worse conditions than he had. This means there’s no private entry point, so Rick shifts to the farthest corner and primes himself.

This is a necessary part of the rescue, but it’s also going to be one of the noisiest. His own escape was risky, but this is more so. With guards right outside -- plus, Rick’s up against the clock. He’s not entirely sure how much time has passed -- his sense of things is a bit blurred given his current state of exhaustion -- but he knows it’s been at least ten minutes, which means the likelihood of his escape being discovered is growing with every passing second.

For a moment, he considers running. It’s not entirely selfish -- if he escapes successfully, he’d be better poised to mount a rescue. A full scale rescue would be more effective, especially given the fact that Rick’s vision still occasionally doubles and his heart palpitations are worrisome. 

But if he leaves, if he goes without his team, there’s a good chance by the time he gets back, there’d be no one to rescue. The village would be deconstructed or up in flames, and if they ever found the rest of the ODS, it would only be their corpses. Rick would be responsible for their deaths and the loss of the entire village.

No, Rick’s going with his team.

Or he’s not going at all.

Gritting his teeth, he lifts the knife. Quickly, he judges the space and puts the tip between two boards at about the level of his chest. Then, with no further hesitation, he starts to saw.

It’s painfully loud to his ears, but he refuses to stop. The gentle gnawing would be easy to place with any number of village activities or rainforest sounds.

At least, that’s what Rick hopes.

The first board seems to take forever, and Rick’s arm is aching by the time he almost cuts his way across the top. He frowns, finding portions have not cut all the way through, and he stifles a curse as he goes back and hacks with new vigor. The board is starting to come loose, and Rick is making progress when suddenly there’s a force from the inside.

Just like that, the board snaps off toward Rick, leaving a significant hole. Rick sees the flash of a hand -- Michael’s by the size and age of it -- and feels tension start to unfurl in his chest.

With renewed motivation, he starts on the next board, cutting as fast as he can. It goes faster this time, and Michael is already wrenching it free before Rick’s even finished the sawing process. 

The gap is wider, but not quite wide enough, so Rick starts on the third, ignoring the persistent throb in his arm. He’s lucky he was bit in his left arm or the task in front of him would be impossible.

Even as it is, Rick’s heart is racing by the time he finishes, and there’s a fresh sheen of sweat all down his back and chest when Michael pushes the last board out and bends down to peer out the hole.

Michael’s face is bruised, with dried blood around a split lip and a gash on his cheek. He offers Rick a quizzical look. “So this is your idea of a rescue?”

Rick snorts, tucking the knife into his belt. “Better than the one you guys planned.”

“Hey, you’re alive, right?” Michael asks.

“Yeah,” Rick says. “But we’re in a village controlled by drug dealers and your cover is about to be blown. So I wouldn’t exactly brag about it.”

Michael chuckles with a wince. “Touche,” he says. “But the same could be said for you.”

“Not for long,” Rick says. “Because we’re leaving. Now.”

Michael nods. “I won’t argue with that.”

“Well, then,” Rick mutters. “There’s a first for everything.”

-o-

It’s not that easy, of course.

This is the ODS. Nothing is ever easy with the ODS.

But honestly, Rick hadn’t expected it to be quite _this_ bad.

Casey crawls through first, which seems normal enough until Rick realizes that Casey’s leg has been splinted. “Wait,” Rick says. “Your leg--”

Casey grunts, settling himself heavily on the ground. He looks about as gaunt as Rick feels. “--is broken, yes,” he says.

“And you’re still moving?” Rick asks in due incredulity.

“You survived a toxic snake bite,” Casey counters. “This is nothing.”

“Can you walk?” Rick hisses.

Casey allows himself a sheepish shrug. “This is _almost_ nothing. But trust me, we’ve got bigger problems.”

Rick’s about to ask what could possibly make this any worse, when Billy starts to crawl out. He only makes it part way before he needs to rest, and Casey’s right there, grabbing him under his armpits and dragging him free. They collapse together in a heap of limbs, and Rick sees the bigger problem. 

He breathes a curse. “Have you been--?”

“--shot?” Billy asks with a wheeze. His face is ghostly white, and there are lines of pain etched into his forehead. The bandage around his shoulder is pathetic at best, ragged and completely soaked through. “Thought you were conscious for that bit.”

“I thought I was hallucinating,” Rick says.

“Ah, well,” Billy murmurs, still breathing heavily. “Couldn’t let you blokes have all the fun, eh?”

Rick’s about to ask Billy to clarify his definition of fun when Michael pulls himself through the opening. Bruised and battered as he is, he’s the fittest among them. So when he staggers a step to his feet, Rick is feeling less and less optimistic about their odds.

“So,” Michael says. “Have you got a plan?”

Rick looks at him. He looks at Casey with his broken leg and Billy with his gunshot.

“I’ll be honest, the plan worked a whole lot better when you three could run,” he says.

“Your plan was to run into the forest and hope for the best, wasn’t it?” Michael asks

“Um,” Rick says. “Yes?”

“That’s not a plan,” Michael argues in a hushed tone.

“Yes, it is!” Rick whispers back vehemently.

“Well, it’s a bad plan,” Michael says.

“We already discussed how my plan is still better than your plan,” Rick says.

“As fun as this is,” Casey interjects. “Aren’t we kind of short on time?”

“And everything else, for that matter,” Billy adds.

“Okay, okay,” Rick says, all in a rush while he tries to get his thoughts together. It’d probably be easier if he didn’t feel like passing out so much. He blinks, swallows, nods. “Okay. New plan.”

“Is it better than the old one?” Michael asks.

“Well,” Rick says, “I’m not sure it could get any worse.”

-o-

Moving is harder now. Though both Casey and Billy get gamely to their feet, they’re slow and cumbersome, tipped against each other as they hobble around. Rick’s first move is to the treeline, where he picks a dense spot and nods.

“Okay,” he says. “You guys stay here--”

His team looks at him with varying degrees of disbelief.

Rick rolls his eyes. “I’m literally just going to scope things out,” he says. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t expecting this village to be a cover for his drug operation. I was focused on getting you guys out, not mapping it.”

“So reconnaissance,” Michael says.

“What a novel idea,” Billy muses.

“Aren’t you supposed to do that _before_ you plan a mission?” Casey asks.

“Hey, we were never supposed to be in the village,” Rick shoots back. “That’s on you, not me.”

“Well, you were sort of dying at the time,” Michael reminds him.

“And we did entirely save your life,” Casey says.

“Do you want a thank you?” Rick asks. “Is that what you want? Someone to stroke your egos?”

Billy shrugs. “Wouldn’t be all bad--”

Rick groans. “I’ll be right back,” he says, shaking his head. 

At their looks of concern, Rick rolls his eyes again. 

“I _promise._ ”

Michael gets to his feet. He still looks a little woozy, but he does a remarkably good job of keeping it from showing. “I’m going with you.”

“Oh, come on,” Rick says. “It’s not exactly a two-man job--”

“Martinez, this is a village run by a drug cartel,” Michael reminds him. “What will soon be a very angry drug cartel once they realize we’ve escaped. I’m _coming with you._ ”

Rick glares at him. “Fine,” he says tersely. “Just...keep up.” He turns to leave with one last look at Casey and Billy. “And you two, try not to make things worse.”

“I will do my utmost,” Billy pledges.

“What, like get bit by a poisonous snake?” Casey asks.

Rick is not amused.

“He has a point,” Michael starts.

Rick just shakes his head and heads back toward the village.

-o-

Despite his bravado, Rick gets about two steps before he realizes two things.

1\. He’s still woozy himself. The heat is unrelenting, and the weakness from his brush with death is continuing to be pervasive.

2\. This is a whole lot more dangerous than he’s admitting. Once their escape is discovered, it’s likely the entire place will be on lockdown with a shoot-first-ask-questions-never sort of mentality. Rick’s playing with time he may not honestly have.

Which is the point, of course. His team isn’t just driving him crazy because it’s fun. They’re driving him crazy because they want to distract him from the reality of the situation. If Rick’s pissed off at their antics, he’s not focused on how he’s probably going to die.

Probably is a funny word as far the ODS is concern. Sometimes it means nothing.

Other times, it means everything.

When he gets back to the hut, he presses along the side. Michael falls in step behind him, and when Rick goes low to peek around, Michael stays high, affording them both a partial view of the village around them.

“All the cartel operations seem to be on this half,” Rick says, but then he nods across to the far side. “But their air strip is over there.”

“Best I can figure, most of the buildings here are actually quarters for the personnel,” Michael says. “They’ve taken us in several for...questioning.”

Rick lets the euphemism go. Instead, he studies the layout. “Offices are probably centralized,” he says. “Which means the product…”

“Over there,” Michael concludes, nodding to a building in the middle of the village. It has guards on every side, and it’s the only structure that looks reinforced with an actual foundation.

“Perfect,” Rick says.

Michael gives him a critical look. “How is that perfect?”

“It’s centrally located, which means it’s far away from the landing strip,” Rick says.

“Yeah, which means any approach will attract attention,” Michael says. “Besides, taking out the drugs has never been our primary focus.”

“It’s not my primary focus now, either,” Rick replies.

Michael shakes his head. “So you want to approach the most heavily guarded building in the village because we haven’t had enough go wrong on this mission?”

“No, I want to approach the most heavily guarded building in the village because we need a distraction,” Rick says. “We need something to preoccupy them long enough to steal a plane and take off without incident. And there’s no better way to get a cartel worked up than to go after their drugs.”

“That’s still a bad plan,” Michael says bluntly.

“It’s exactly the kind of plan you’d come up with,” Rick counters. “You’re probably just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”

“That’s stupid.”

“That’s legitimate,” Rick says. “And irrelevant. We’re doing this.”

“If we’re doing anything, we’re doing it together,” Michael says.

Rick pulls back, a little away from the building for some pretense of increased privacy. “Together? How? Billy’s been shot. Casey’s got a broken leg. And you -- you’ve got a concussion by the looks of things. None of you are in any shape to make a run at the drugs.”

“And you are?” Michael returns. “You were bit by a snake--”

“And I’m better now,” Rick concludes. “It has to be me.”

Michael bolsters himself, puffing up his chest. “I go with you.”

“No,” Rick says, refusing to entertain the notion. “I’ve been resting for the last few days. You’ve been, what, tortured?”

“Aggressively interrogated,” Michael amends.

“Besides, who’s going to get Casey and Billy all the way to the landing strip?” Rick points out. “We need to separate.”

Michael’s expression is tight, and the arguments are written all over his face. But so is his inevitable acquiescence. Because Rick’s right -- and they both know it.

“Damn it,” Michael mutters. “We brought you here to save you.”

“And you did,” Rick says. “Now it’s my turn.”

Michael lets out a hot breath. “You’re too--”

“Young?” Rick asks. “Inexperienced? I swear to God, if you call me the new guy--”

“But you _are,_ ” Michael insists. 

“No, not anymore,” Rick says. “I broke out. I got you free. I started this. I’m going to finish it. And _you_ are going to let me.”

Rick’s been with this team long enough to know what it takes. Sometimes he’s polite, but the fact is, they’re past that. He’s past that. He outgrew it two years ago, and he’s never really looked back. The fact that Michael still looks surprised--

Well, that’s why Rick needs to leave the ODS.

Because Rick’s an equal player here. He’s one of them, through and through. And if they haven’t seen it before, they _will_ see it now.

He unslings the gun from his shoulder, handing it to Michael. “Get Billy and Casey to the airstrip,” he says. “I’ll meet you there.”

Michael doesn’t take the gun. “This is a bad plan,” he says flatly.

Rick grins. “Yeah,” he says. “It is. Now take the gun.”

Cowed, Michael does. “Just be careful,” he says, as though it’s an order.

Rick tilts his head before moving back toward the village. “Yes, sir.”

-o-

It feels pretty good to get the last word in. It feels even better to be right.

It all feels a bit less good when he realizes what he’s actually doing.

He’s going to walk up to the drugs and light them on fire.

As if it’s actually that easy.

He really has become one of the ODS. Much longer on this team, and he’ll be as completely crazy as the rest of them.

All drama aside, Rick knows there’s still a job to be done, and he’s the one to do it. He jogs from building to building, watching carefully for any signs of disturbance. No one seems to notice him yet, though, and it’s some kind of luck that their escape hasn’t been detected just yet. Luck is precarious, but Rick will take it as he picks up his pace, rounding the village to where he started from. 

From this location, he’s got a straight shot to the drugs. Better still, he can approach from behind, which will give him the element of surprise. It’s a small element, but consider the fact that Rick’s unarmed, he figures it’s still worth something.

Trying to steady his breathing, he squints across the compound, watching along the treeline to catch a glimpse of the others. He sees a rustle in the trees, but it’s gone as fast as it appears. A few yards forward, there’s another rustle, in the general direction of the airstrip.

That’s about as much as Rick can hope for. Michael will get Billy and Casey there.

Now, it’s up to Rick.

With a deep breath, he summons his strength and his courage, setting his eyes on the building.

And then, before he can move, all hell breaks loose.

-o-

At first, it’s yelling, close by.

Then, it’s lots of yelling.

Rick’s Spanish is as good as his English, but it doesn’t take a native speaker to know what they’re yelling about. Rick’s escape has been noticed.

More yelling erupts across the village.

And the rest of the ODS has been discovered missing.

Rick’s still reeling from this sudden shift, when an armed man comes around at him behind the hut. There’s a moment when it’s hard to tell who’s more surprised -- him or the guard -- but then the man lifts his gun, and Rick lunges.

So much for the element of surprise.

But, what the hell. Surprise isn’t what defines the ODS.

No, that’s chaos.

And Rick can work with chaos.

-o-

Rick can plan like Michael, and he can charm like Billy.

He can also fight like Casey.

There’s no thinking; there’s no finesse; there’s just winning. He’s not even sure what moves he’s using; he just knows that they’re working. A kick, a punch, and Rick grabs the gun. Wrenching it forward, the man is off balance and Rick finishes him with a chop to the neck. The man goes down, and Rick takes the gun, turning just in time to duck the gunfire from another man.

He rolls, coming up on his knees and firing. The man goes down, and another after that. With this much noise, there’s no point in stopping, so Rick doesn’t.

Rick doesn’t stop.

Rick doesn’t look back.

Rick doesn’t hesitate.

He charges ahead, letting no one stand in his way. When he gets to the secure building, one guard gets off a shot. Rick disarms him as the other fires, too. Using the first guard to block the shot, Rick knocks them both down, using his gun to blow the lock clean off.

Throwing the door open, he doesn’t have time for pretenses. He dives gracelessly inside, ducking as fresh gunfire hits the door behind him. For safety reasons, he scrambles farther inside, keeping himself low in some vain attempt to shield himself. He doesn’t stop until he finds cover, curling in on himself while his heart race and the gunfire picks up outside.

He needs a minute -- he needs more than a minute, but a minute is all he takes for himself -- to catch his breath and regain his bearings. It’s something of a heady feeling, knowing he made it this far.

Then he looks up and sees what he’s taken cover behind.

The drugs.

This is what he came for.

Suddenly, he finds himself grinning. Maybe it was time to have a little fun.

-o-

Rick’s short on time -- no one has stormed the building yet, but Rick knows it’s just a matter of time. Plus, if Michael’s going to get Casey and Billy safely to the airstrip, Rick’s got to live up to his end of the bargain.

He promised a distraction.

He intends to provide a distraction.

The drugs will light quickly, but Rick would still be better off with an accelerant. Unfortunately, in his hasty approach he hadn’t thought to snag any gasoline, and somehow he doubts that someone as meticulous as Hernandez has some conveniently stored alongside his drug supply. 

On the bright side, however, the room is _packed_ with drugs. The building doesn’t have the largest footprint, but Hernandez has utilized the space well. Which means, once it gets started, it’s really going to start going. 

Mentally, Rick considers the possible complications from this, and tries to remember how much wind there is today. Settled amongst the trees, there’s not going to be much for a cross breeze, which is good. Rick doesn’t want to destroy the village, and he certainly doesn’t want to accidentally set the rainforest ablaze.

But given the size of the building and the space around it, it should be a safe bet. Just enough smoke and flame to start freaking people out without doing any actual damage to anything except Hernandez’s bottom line and overall operation. No doubt he’ll have to relocate, which will make their job back home harder, but still, with the positive IDs and the slowdown of the operation, it’s probably more a win than anything else.

That’s what Rick decides, anyway, in the two seconds he spares to consider the consequences of his next move.

Reaching in his pocket, he’s grateful that Hernandez doesn’t consider a cigarette lighter to be a weapon. Because it’s not, but Rick’s been carrying one ever since he joined the ODS. Because a cigarette lighter can be your salvation if you know how to use it correctly.

After three years, Rick knows how to use it correctly.

Before he starts, he rips open several containers, tearing his fingers through the packaging as best he can on as many pallets as possible. Then, starting at the back, he starts to light the exposed drugs, running from one to the next to the next. When the last one has taken, Rick can feel the smoke in the back of his throat, and he doesn’t hesitate to run out the front door as fast as he can.

Sure, that makes him an easy target.

For about two seconds.

Which is about how long it takes for the fire to collect and take off -- and the whole thing combusts.


	4. Chapter 4

The ball of flame is large, sending a concussive force that knocks Rick off his feet. The men with guns fall, too, and Rick’s able to roll with the blast, gaining his footing and grabbing a stray gun as he continues to run.

With the fire now a pressing reality, Rick’s presence is decidedly underwhelming to the guards. Some seem to be flocking toward the flame, as if to put it out or salvage a bit of their payday. Others, however, seem to assume that they are under attack and scatter to the woods. The two or three who try to intercept Rick are easily disarmed, and Rick just keeps on running.

He feels like this is how it’s been for the last three years. That he hit the ground running and just hasn’t stopped. Nothing has stood in his way, and there’s never any time to look back because he has to keep moving forward. If he doesn’t, he’ll die.

That’s a hell of a way to live.

It’s an inevitable way to die.

Three years.

Rick pumps his legs harder, ducking as another guard fires at him before ramming him in the gut and tackling him to the ground. Two quick punches, and he lifts his gun forcefully at the next man to approach him. The man crumples, bleeding from the head, and Rick gets his footing, and orients himself to the airstrip.

The end is in sight.

Rick just has to keep running.

-o-

The rest of the distance passes quickly, and despite the fact that he’s still recovering from a near fatal snakebite, he feels invigorated. This has always been the best part of the ODS: the unparalleled field work. Even when nothing works out the way it’s supposed to, it’s a rush unlike any other. And not just the pure adrenaline. Knowing that he’s fighting the good fight and doing it _well._

Not just well -- good. Damn good. Rick’s a good spy, and if he can pull this out, snatch a mission away from the flames -- literally -- then he’ll have earned his stripes. He’ll never have to be the rookie again. He’ll be just as good, just as daring, just as lucky as the rest of his team.

All he has to do is get to the airstrip, meet up with his team, and then get the hell out of here.

He’s so focused on that goal that he doesn’t see Hernandez until it’s too late to turn away. He skids to a stop, gun up and ready, before he sees his team.

In a line, on their knees, guns pointed to their head.

-o-

It comes out of nowhere.

Rick’s been so focused on running, on downing the enemy, on executing the plan -- he’d always counted on Hernandez to go to the drugs, first. He’d thought Hernandez would protect the product -- his mission -- before all else, and then focus on solidifying his men.

He hadn’t thought Hernandez would turn to the airstrip, abandon everything to save his own skin. 

That’s probably why Rick’s not a hardened criminal or a member of a drug cartel. He doesn’t have the constitution for it.

But after three years, he really should be able to predict it.

Instead, here he is. All alone with his team on the line, caught off guard just like a rookie.

“My friend,” Hernandez says. “Perhaps now is the time for a little honesty, yes?”

Rick looks at his team. Casey’s face is barely composed -- no doubt the position on his knees is nothing short of torture on his broken leg. Billy looks like he’s about to fall over -- blood loss, probably, because that’s just like Billy. Michael, though. Michael meets his gaze. He doesn’t say anything; his face doesn’t even flinch.

There’s no need. Michael knows what Rick is thinking, just like Rick knows what Michael is thinking. His team drives him crazy, but they’re a team, more than Rick would ever know how to admit.

Rick steadies himself, easing his posture and letting the aim of his gun drop. “Honesty?” he asks diffidently. “We’re just looking to go home.”

“So you attack my men and destroy my property?” Hernandez asks.

“Well,” Rick says. “You were holding us at gunpoint. And I’m pretty sure my friends didn’t beat up themselves.”

Hernandez almost smiles. “You think you are clever.”

“No,” Rick replies. “I think I’m ready to go.”

“That is a point I am afraid I cannot help you with,” Hernandez continues. “You have many debts to pay with me now.”

“We’re a film crew,” Rick points out. “We don’t actually have much money.”

“Pity,” Hernandez says. “You shall have to pay another way then.”

One of the guards moves forward, pressing a gun to the back of Michael’s head. Michael stiffens.

Rick presses his lips together, grinding his teeth for a moment. “That’s a little petty, isn’t it?”

“Vengeance is part of what I do,” he says. “It took me several years to learn that, but I have mastered it now.”

Rick offers a restrained grin. “You must be very proud.”

“Besides,” Hernandez continues. “In my time at this post, I have learned to leave no loose ends. You, my friend, are a very loose end.”

“No,” Rick says. “We’re just a film crew. We just want to go home. And I think you’re going to let us.”

Hernandez raises his eyebrows. “Oh? And why is that?”

Rick wets his lips. “Because,” he says. “Your mother would want you to.”

It’s a risky ploy. To use a man’s grief on the day of his mother’s funeral -- it’s not exactly the most ethical choice.

But ethics are not so simple anymore. Not when Billy looks like he’s about to pass out, not when Casey can’t even move from the pain, not when Michael has a gun to his head. Not when there’s armed men between Rick and his last chance at salvation.

For a moment, Hernandez actually looks surprised.

Then, he sneers. “My mother?”

Rick nods. “She was a good woman, wasn’t she?” he asks. “That’s why you brought her here, to bury her and pay your respects. What would she say if she saw you now?”

“My mother,” Hernandez says slowly. “She hated the violence. She told me that settling for less was better than becoming something you are not to attain more. She believed there was hope for me to change, until the very end.”

Rick feels hope start to solidify in his chest.

“She was a good woman, my mother,” he says. “Everyone loved her.”

Rick nods, expectant.

“My mother,” Hernandez starts, and stop shorts. Then his lip curls. “My mother was a weak, pathetic woman. She never rose above her station, she never thought to want more. She let people tell her where to go and what to do. She gave away all she had until she herself was destitute. I brought her here because I do not like loose ends. I could not bury her in another place. Here, she was under my control. Here, I could build my empire on her grave and show her for all eternity that _I knew best._ ”

Rick stares, suppressing the urge to curse. The diatribe isn’t what he expects. Hernandez is more than a grieving son. He’s a psychopath.

A psychopath with more emotional fodder to pull the trigger on each and every one of them. Rick’s managed to take the worst situation imaginable and make it so much worse.

In that instant, Rick knows he can’t fix this.

He just can’t.

His plan has failed. He’s tired and weak; he’s worn out and out of ideas. His best, it’s just not enough this time.

There’s nothing left.

He looks at Michael; Michael looks back.

There’s _almost_ nothing left.

Rick’s out of plans, but he’s not out of options, because there’s still one thing left, one thing that’s always been there since the first day Rick walked into Langley and took a questionable job in Higgins’ office. In three years, a lot has changed, but that much hasn’t.

Rick’s part of a team.

He’s part of the best team, the only team, _his team._

Steadier, he looks at Hernandez and lifts his chin. “You shouldn’t forget your roots,” he says, slow and measured as he feels the tension mount and the pressure build in the pit of his stomach. 

Hernandez laughs. “You are as delusional as the old woman!” he cries.

Michael holds his breath; Casey straightens; Billy’s eyes clear. 

Rick keeps himself still. “Maybe,” he agrees. “But you don’t get it. Good or bad, whether you like it or not, your roots are the only thing that keeps you standing when things get really tough.”

Hernandez looks ready to laugh again, but he never gets the chance. Because Michael reaches back and grabs the gun while Casey throws himself into the guard behind him. Billy ducks and rolls, sending the last guard off balance. In the melee, Hernandez goes for his own gun.

But he’s too slow.

Because Rick’s been holding his all along. And he’s tired, his vision is blurry, and he very well could pass out at any second, but he has the strength for one last shot.

One last chance.

He pulls the trigger.

And Hernandez goes down like a felled tree, a bullet to the chest.

Rick looks from Hernandez to Michael, who’s dragging Billy up with one hand and checking on Casey with the other. There’s still yelling and smoke in the background, but Michael’s eyes find his across the melee.

“You did it,” Michael tells him, a little disbelieving, a little like he probably knew all along.

Rick’s lungs are burning, and the pounding between his ears is suddenly pronounced again. He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “We did it.”

Michael wets his lips, adjusting his grip on Billy as Casey gets his footing. “So what’s next?” he asks.

Inhaling, Rick blinks a few times to clear his head. “Now,” he says. “We get the hell out of here.”

Despite the dried blood on his face, Michael grins. “I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

-o-

The mission is mostly shot to hell.

On the one hand, they did identify several key members of Hernandez’s organization. They also located a key base in the operation, before shutting it down and stopping Hernandez -- permanently. Rick’s not naive enough to think that’s the end of all drug trafficking in the area -- what Hernandez leaves behind will be picked up by someone else, probably someone just as ruthless and smart as Hernandez was. That’s the thing with spywork. One mission is never enough. The mission, as it is, never actually ends.

Higgins won’t be thrilled, and honestly, Rick’s not exactly thrilled either. He’d spent months tracking Hernandez, and now he’ll basically have to start over since all the intel on Hernandez is worthless now. But they have slowed the flow of drugs, at least for now. That will count for something with Higgins, although Rick knows it probably won’t count for much.

Still, as Rick makes a straight run to the plane, helping Casey limp on board as Michael drags Billy, he thinks maybe it counts for enough. Casey helps settle Billy in the back while Michael joins Rick at the controls. 

“You sure you can fly this thing?” Michael asks as Rick fumbles through a takeoff checklist.

“I got my pilot’s license last year,” he says, flipping a few more switches.

“With all your free time?” Michael jokes.

Rick doesn’t even bother to glare at him. “You want to do it?”

“No, no,” Michael says, holding up his hands. “Looks like you’ve got it entirely under control.”

Rick smirks, bringing the engine to life and starting to taxi around toward the runway. It’s a little short, but the plane is small. Out the window, Rick can see the men continuing to scatter as dark smoke billows in the air. The villagers have taken cover, but Rick catches glimpses of them hiding at their doors.

Life will go back to normal here. These villagers, they won’t have to hide drugs or live with a cartel. They can go back to their roots.

With the plane in position, Rick takes a breath, glancing out one last time to where he can see the cemetery. He wonders if Hernandez will be buried with his mother -- if he even deserves that much.

It’s not Rick’s place to say, though.

“Okay,” Rick says. “We all good?”

Michael glances back toward Casey and Billy. “Looks like.”

“Alright then,” Rick murmurs, putting his hand on the throttle and giving it all he has. “Let’s go home.”

Because no matter how well it went, the mission is finally over.

-o-

At cruising altitude, Rick evaluates his options. Navigating toward the smallest airfield nearby, he make contact and sells a convincing enough story to get them access. He figures having Hernandez’s plane is probably a convenient selling point with local officials, and he can only figure that by the time anyone figures out what happened in the village, they’ll be long gone.

At least, Rick hopes so.

Exhausted, he puts the plane on autopilot, turning back to catch a glimpse of Casey and Billy. “Everyone okay?”

“We’ve been better,” Casey snaps.

“Aye,” Billy says. “Reckon we’ve earned some R and R after this escapade.”

Michael grunts. “If you count a hospital recovery room, then sure.”

Billy makes a face. “Given the choice between drug dealers and that--”

“I’d probably pick the drug dealers,” Casey mutters.

Rick nods. “We’re good then,” he says. “We’re good.”

“Yeah, kid,” Michael says, patting him on the shoulder. “You did good.”

Rick looks at him. He wants to remind Michael that he’s no kid. He’s sure as hell not a rookie, not when he’s gotten them all this far. He’s part of this team, and equal and important part--

And that’s what matters.

The world is spinning, and Rick’s heart is fluttering in his chest. His breathing quickens, and in his mind he still sees Hernandez fall and a snake dangling from his arm.  
 _  
You shouldn’t forget your roots.  
_  
Rick blinks and sees Michael, who’s frowning at him now.

“Martinez?” Michael asks. “You okay?”

Dumbly, Rick nods. His mouth is dry, and his tongue is thick. “Yeah,” he says. “You think you can take over now?”

“Sure,” Michael says. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Rick says again, blinking in futility as his vision starts to blur even worse than before. “I just think I’m going to pass out now.”

With that, Rick pitches sideways, and he hears Michael curse. He doesn’t see the floor rushing up to meet him -- he doesn’t have to.

Because that’s the thing. Rick’s an equal and important part of this team. Those are his roots. Even when he falls--

They’ll catch him every time.

-o-

When Rick sleeps, he dreams of snakes in the rainforest and drug cartels with guns. There’s smoke and there’s pain as chaos erupts and threatens to swallow him whole.

He dreams of big dreams and lofty plans. He dreams of a cover overseas, and asking Adele to marry him. Rick’s always had plans. Plans to be a hero and a patriot; plans to be happy; plans to be _better._

These are Rick’s dreams.

Then he wakes up.

-o-

A hospital.

Rick looks up at the generic tile ceiling and smells the powerful scent of disinfectant. There are monitors beeping and fluorescent lights try to blind him.

Of course it’s a hospital.

After almost dying from a snakebite in the Amazon and passing out on an airplane that he commandeered, a hospital is really the only next logical conclusion.

His team should be harping on him, cracking jokes at his expense and--

He jolts upright, his IV tugging painfully at his hand. His _team._

That’s what this has been all about, after all. From the start. It’s been about his _team._

That settles hollowly in his stomach, and he sits up a little more, tentatively swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He feels a little fuzzy, but his head is clearer than before and all the aches seem muted now. He licks his lips and cautiously gets his footing, reaching out to the curtain surrounding his bed in hopes of better determining his current situation.

He’s not sure what his current cover status is. He’s not even sure what his current physical status is. He can only assume the plane was landed successfully and without incident, although without knowing what hospital he’s in, such deductions are actually a bit of a stretch. His team could be anywhere -- shot, broken limbs, concussion -- they needed medical help as much if not more than him, and the fact that they’re _not_ there--

Well, that’s probably the scariest thing yet. His team is always there. Not always when he wants them, and not always when he needs him, but still there in their own twisted way.

That’s just the ODS.

Shaking, he pulls back the curtain, hoping to steady himself. All his efforts, though, prove to be in vain. When he pulls back the curtain, there they are.

The ODS.

His team.

The line of beds goes to the door. Michael’s next to him, sleeping with his head bandaged. Billy’s in the next bed, mouth open while he huffs lightly in unconsciousness, a bulky bandage plainly visible under the thin sheet. Closest to the door, Casey’s sleeping in utter stillness, his casted leg almost comically large.

They’re alive. They’re okay.

They’re his team.

Seeing them, knowing this -- well, that makes all the rest okay.

Leaving the curtain open, he hobbles back to the bed. He settles gingerly on his back, look at his recovering team for a long moment. He’s tired, he wants to sleep. He probably should sleep. But, he can’t help but think, it’s his turn.

Three years, and it’s really his turn.

-o-

Apparently, they’re all going to be fine. By morning, they’re each up in turn, and Rick stays awake just long enough to talk to a doctor, who is quite grateful that Rick can speak fluently. From that conversation, Rick finds out that his team is recovering well. Michael’s concussion is showing signs of improvement, and Casey will get cleared for crutches soon. Billy’s not even going to need much rehab to get back on his feet.

“You forgot to ask about yourself,” Michael reminds him balefully.

“You are the one with the dramatic condition,” Billy says.

“And this is all your fault,” Casey mutters.

Rick rolls his eyes. “I’m fine--”

“Senor,” the doctor interjects. “Your friends, they are correct. You are very weak. You are very lucky.”

“See,” Michael says, far too smug.

“You should know better by now,” Billy muses.

Casey smirks. “We’re never wrong.”

Rick chuckles, nodding his head as he wets his lips. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I’m pretty damn lucky.”

-o-

If being on a mission with the ODS is hard, being cooped up in the same hospital room with nothing to do is astronomically worse. Casey hums to himself incessantly, and Michael fusses over every little detail. Billy complains about everything, and by the end of the day, Rick wants to kill them each in turn.

“I’m just saying,” Michael continues. “Their entire charting system is entirely impractical and wasteful. I mean, they have to flip three pages just to see the medication list when clearly it should be visible on the front--”

“Oh, good Lord, man,” Billy cuts him off. “You’re only on painkillers, and the good ones at that. Whatever antibiotics they’ve got in this thing are making me continually nauseous.”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t eat everyone’s leftovers, you wouldn’t feel sick,” Casey mutters.

“I do not believe in waste,” Billy objects.

“Have you seen your apartment? It’s all waste,” Michael points out.

“Your brain is a waste,” Casey agrees acidically.

“The fact that you are devolving to personal slights is offensive,” Billy insists, puffing his chest out in indignation.

“The fact that the three of you are still alive after all these years is offensive,” Rick interjects. “Seriously, how have you managed that?”

This earns him three long looks. Rick refuses to blush.

“So says the new guy,” Billy murmurs.

“Who got bit by a snake,” Casey adds.

“And had to be healed by a _drug dealer,_ ” Michael says with due force.

Rick shakes his head. “No way,” he says. “You’re not pinning this on a rookie mistake.”

Remarkably in unison, his team each cocks their heads. 

“I saved _all_ your asses,” Rick says. “I can’t account for snakes.”

They each offer a version of their own withering stare.

Rick scoffs. “You _can’t,_ ” he says, more insistently now. “I mean, none of you did.”

“We did successfully provide first aid,” Casey says.

“And carried you efficiently,” Billy points out.

“And came up with a plan that saved your life,” Michael tells him.

Rick stares at them, hoping they’re joking.

They have to be joking.

“I’m not the new guy,” Rick says.

They don’t reply.

“Three years!” Rick says.

“Whatever you say, kid,” Michael says, settling back with his arms crossed.

Rick groans.

-o-

The irony is that he’s the first one to be released. He’s smug when he leaves them, because _three years._

“Bring us back some real food in the morning,” Michael says.

“With meat I can identify,” Casey says.

“And perhaps a wee bit of sugar for my coffee?” Billy asks.

Rick shakes his head. “No way,” he says. 

“Seniority rules,” Michael protests.

Rick smirks. “I told you, though,” he says. “I’m _not_ the new guy. See you tomorrow. I’ll stop by after I eat my breakfast and drink my coffee. Enjoy your hospital food.”

“Three years has made you cold,” Billy mutters.

Rick grins. “Now you’re starting to get it.”

-o-

He eats a big dinner. He gets dessert and drinks an expensive bottle of wine. He upgrades to a bigger room and takes a bath, just because he can. He doesn’t care who ends up footing the bill, almost dying on a would-be farewell mission warrants a little indulgence.

In bed, he tries texting Adele, but she’s caught up at work. He flips through the channels and dozes a bit, thinking back about everything.

He’s better; his team is healing. The mission is over.

But Rick can’t shake this feeling. This nagging sense that it’s _not_ over. That it’s never over.

That’s the paranoia, of course. That’s why he has to leave the ODS. They’ve made him a bastard, just like the rest of them. If he stays, he’ll be the exact same way. Impossible and difficult and alone.

And Rick doesn’t want that. 

He looks around, and realizes the irony of it all. He is alone, and that’s the scariest thing of all. He is paranoid, more so than ever, and it is his team’s fault. But not because they’re bad spies, but because they’re good spies. They’re the best spies. And Rick knows after three years exactly what that means.

It means they almost die. It means they put it all on the line. It means that every mission could be their last. And Rick’s scared of that. Rick’s scared because the mission isn’t enough. No, the thing that matters most is bringing his team home.

That’s what makes the ODS the best.

That’s what makes the ODS the worst.

That’s why they’re difficult and impossible and paranoid. Being with the ODS has changed him, but leaving will only make him less connected. He’ll have less to lose. He’ll never have to worry about smuggling his team out of a village run by a cartel.

Then again, when he’s bit by a snake in the Amazon, they’ll be no one there to get a drug dealer to save his life.

Rick can be a hero anywhere. Nameless and faceless. He can save the world all on his own.

Or, he can stick with his team. It’ll be harder and scarier, but he’ll save the world -- starting with each one of them.

He’s not the man he was three years ago. He’s not the spy he thought he’d be. 

Tonight, though, he’s on his own. He can determine his own future. He can get everything he’s ever wanted -- and then some. He can move beyond the ODS. He can determine his own missions and define his own success. He can be whoever he wants.

He doesn’t _need_ them.

But he’s better with them.

Just like they’re better with him.

For Rick, it’s the longest night yet in three whole years.

-o-

Rick goes back to the hospital first thing in the morning. He has to sneak in past the nurses since visiting hours haven’t actually started yet, but he’s a spy. He can handle a few nurses.

In the room, his teammates don’t look surprised.

“You didn’t bring breakfast,” Michael notices.

“I was looking forward to meat,” Casey says.

Billy offers him a baleful look. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had coffee?”

Rick makes a face. “You probably shouldn’t be on caffeine anyway. You’re recovering from a gunshot wound.”

“And you’re recovering from a snakebite,” Michael says.

“Recovered,” Rick clarifies. “I’m fine.”

Michael exchanges a look with Billy and Casey.

“I said, I’m fine,” Rick repeats, because he knows what they’re thinking.

“So that’s why you snuck in here before visiting hours without so much as a donut?” Michael asks.

“I think your definition of _fine_ leaves something lacking,” Casey agrees.

“As does your sense of decency,” Billy mutters.

Rick sighs, because of course they know. If he can read them, they can read him. That’s how it works. “I just--” he starts but isn’t sure how to finish. He takes a breath and lets it out with a shake of his head. “Things almost weren’t fine.”

This earns him three curious glances. “I thought you were the one calling this a success,” Michael remarks far too casually.

“I was,” Rick says. “I mean, I am. I just -- I thought--”

He fumbles, look at the bruises on Michael’s face, the circles under Billy’s eyes and the weight of Casey’s leg in a cast.

“I thought I was going to lose you guys back there,” he admits with an uncomfortable shrug. “All of you, and -- I don’t know. I could finish the mission and do it all right, but that never would be okay.”

To say that the admission is awkward would be an understatement. In his time with the ODS, Rick has learned how _not_ to say a lot of things. It’s not that they don’t talk about their feelings, it’s that they don’t talk directly about their feelings. Billy will write poetry, and Michael will lie a little less, and Casey -- well, Casey does whatever the hell Casey wants, so that’s pretty much not a relevant issue.

But feelings. Fears and truths. That just doesn’t fit into what they do. Sure, they’ve broached the topic. They say thank you for saving each other’s lives, and then the next day everything is back to normal.

That’s the problem, though. Normal doesn’t work; not really. Not when they do what the ODS does.

“I think we know how that feels,” Michael reminds him, a little more gently now.

“I know, I just--” Rick sighs with a shakes of his head. “I’ve been doing this for three years. Three years, I’ve been going out and putting it all on the line. And I’m not scared of dying, but the thought of leaving you guys behind….”

“And we know that, too,” Michael says.

“Do you?” Rick returns. “Do you really?”

Michael shifts, pressing his lips together for a moment. He shares a glance with Billy and Casey before looking back at Rick plaintively. “I think you’re forgetting a few key details of this mission.”

“Like what? The part where you guys nearly got tortured and executed?”

“How about when Casey cut into your arm to relieve the venom and carried you across the jungle,” Michael says.

“Or how Michael came up with the brilliant plan of begging a drug lord for help,” Billy says.

“Or when Billy took a bullet instead of letting them hurt you,” Casey says.

Rick stares at them, forgetting to blink.

Michael lifts his chin coolly. “So yeah,” he says. “We know.”

That’s not a surprise. Rick’s known that since he nearly bled out in the back of a SUV a few countries over. But for some reason, it’s easy to forget. Or easy to think that it’s different for them. That they don’t feel like he does, that they don’t feel as scared or as desperate or as stupid. That somehow they’re immune to such things because, well, they’re bastards.

“That’s not what we’re supposed to be thinking about in the field,” Rick murmurs. “Higgins--”

“Higgins isn’t really our primary concern,” Michael says. “Spies have no one. We don’t have personal lives. We don’t have friends. We just have each other. If we don’t look out for each other, then what’s the point?”

The point, Rick think. That’s the point. That’s why the ODS is special; that’s why they’re different.  
 _  
That’s the point.  
_  
“Besides,” Michael says, settling back a little easier. “You got us out and made this mission work.”

“It is rather...impressive,” Casey concedes.

“For the new guy no less,” Billy says with a wide grin.

Rick deflates. This is also the point. “You know I’m not the new guy, right?” he asks, too tired to be angry. Too tired to be anything but weary.

“You have three years,” Michael says. “Between the three of us, we have decades. What else do you call it?”

“I call it good enough!” Rick replies. “I know I haven’t been in the game as long as you guys, but I have experience. I’m _good._ I’m more than good, I’m capable of anything you guys can do and then some. I can’t always be your new guy.” He stops, and he doesn’t like to be vulnerable, but at this point -- after three years -- he’s desperate. “I _can’t._ ”

He wants them to understand. He wants them to see. He wants _them._

For a moment, the silence lingers. When Michael composes himself, he looks straight in Rick’s eyes. “Martinez,” he says, as a matter of fact. “We’re a team. We all have a part to play. Casey’s the muscle. Billy’s the charmer. I’m the mastermind. I guess we could call you the translator, but that’s not really it either, is it? We create personas. We craft lies. We manufacture parts for ourselves because that’s how we live our lives. But it’s not who we are separately, and it never has been. It’s who we are _together._ We’re a team.”

Rick’s throat is tight. “But I’m the butt of all your jokes--”

“Oh, please,” Casey says. “All of them?”

“Personally I am quite fond of mocking Michael for trailing after Fay like a lost puppy after all these years,” Billy says.

“And Casey’s a great target for his strange lack of social skills,” Michael says.

“And Billy -- come on,” Casey adds. “How often do we bring up the fact that he was kicked out of his homeland and sentenced to a life of exile?”

Rick blinks, a growing awareness settling over him.

“Come on, Martinez,” Michael says. “It’s been three years, and you haven’t given us much else to work with. Let us have the new guy shtick.”

His team doesn’t ask him for much. They trick him; they coerce him; they humiliate him; they order him. But they don’t ask.

Yet, here they are. Asking him this.

And all Rick can think is how stupid he feels. After three years, he actually needed it spelled out. He needed to be told and reassured and coddled. After three years, he is still insecure and uncertain and trying to prove himself.

Hell, he is the new guy.

Maybe it’s not what he wants, but it’s really not so bad.

Sheepishly, he smiles. “I just want to know I’m in the right place.”

“We didn’t realize you had someplace else to go,” Billy muses.

“The private sector’s not worth it,” Casey says.

“And management would annoy the hell out of you,” Michael says.

“No, I know,” Rick says. “I just….well…”

They’re watching him, waiting. Rick’s not sure how much he wants to admit, but it seems like the thing to do. 

He sighs. “There’s this job,” he says. “A deputy field position out of one of the Middle East offices. It’s a definitive step up, and I’d mostly be working solo in a long cover situation.”

He trails off, awkward.

Michael raises his eyebrows. “A deputy, huh?”

“The Middle East would be exciting at least,” Casey says. “But the food leaves something to be desired.”

“And solo work has its merits,” Billy says, as though trying to sound enthusiastic.

“And it’s drawbacks,” Michael comments. “Just ask Casey.”

“Don’t,” Casey says tersely. “I did my time, and you have to be particularly well suited for it.”

“Or you run amuck like our friend Gallo in Germany,” Billy points out.

“Or worse,” Michael says. “It’s a dangerous thing to work alone.”

“But I’m good,” Rick protests. “I mean, that’s sort of the thing. You guys always think I need to be protected, but I’m good. We all take risks, and maybe it doesn’t always work out, but I’m the same as you.”

“Oh, we know,” Michael says.

“We have already begrudgingly admitted your worth,” Casey says.

“And that’s why I think we can all agree it’s not the sort of place for you,” Billy tells him.

“But what if I’m good at it?” Rick asks. “Sometimes I feel like I just need to prove it. If not to you guys, then to myself. That I’m a good spy, all on my own.”

“Of course you’d be good,” Casey says. “I do not tolerate mediocrity.”

“You haven’t lasted this long with the likes of us without being good, lad,” Billy says.

“And if you’re looking to move up, that’s where you’d want to go,” Michael says. “I’m not surprised they want you. But if you go--”

Rick waits for a quip. He listens for a turn of the tone. He’s expecting reverse psychology, manipulation -- the whole works.

But Michael shrugs. “We’d have a hell of a time replacing you.”

It’s exactly the right thing to say. Damn it, it’s _perfect._

Rick wants to hate Michael for it, as much as he wants to hate Billy’s baleful sincerity and Casey’s plaintive acceptance. They want him; they like him; they respect him. They’re his team.

He’ll never change that. If he moves on, if he goes solo, it doesn’t change any of this. It’s not about what people say or what they appear to be; it’s about who they are when the chips are down. On paper, Hernandez looked like a good son, but in the end, he’d chopped himself off at the roots and paid the price. It’s the same for Rick. Leaving isn’t wrong, but it’s certainly not better. More than that, it doesn’t fix _anything._

This is about how Rick feels about himself. Adele was right; his team is right.

This is where he belongs. He owes his team everything.

Just like they owe him everything.

“Well, I haven’t taken it yet,” Rick says. 

“And will you be taking it?” Billy asks, hedging slightly. They’re all trying to look nonchalant, but Rick knows better.

He smiles. “Nah,” he says. “I’m too tired to even consider something new right now anyway.”

The tension breaks, and Billy smiles outright. Michael looks pleased, and Casey looks less like he wants to kill someone.

“We are glad to hear that,” Michael says.

“It would have been off putting to drag you through the rainforest just to have you leave,” Casey agrees.

“Besides,” Billy says. “You wouldn’t have liked Lebanon much anyway.”

Rick’s nodding in agreement, but then he stops. “Wait,” he says. “I never said it was Lebanon--”

He stops short. The smile fades on his face.

“Damn it!” he says. “You knew!”

Billy has the decency to look vaguely sheepish.

Michael just shrugs. “After three years, is that really a surprise?”

“You should know none of your drawers are secure,” Casey says.

“Not even that false bottom on the top,” Billy says.

“Hey!” Rick protests. “You knew all along and you didn’t say anything?”

“We weren’t sure what you were going to do,” Michael says.

“I never had any doubts,” Billy tells him. “I spoke of your loyalty.”

“I figured you’d chicken out,” Casey admits.

Rick’s mouth drops open. “You’re bastards,” he says. “You’re all _bastards._ ”

Michael chuckles. “You know it,” he says. “So welcome to the club.”

It’s not a club Rick wanted to join.

But he knows it’s not one he’ll ever leave.

-o-

It’s another three days before Rick’s ready to go home. Billy’s still weak, and Casey should really be in a wheelchair. Michael pretends like everything is normal, but Rick finds himself taking the lead.

They let him, while they grouse and grumble. They let him, because they trust him. They let him, because he’s one of them.

In the motel, he packs up. There’s a car waiting for them, and his team is waiting. Rick has time to make one short call.

Adele answers quickly, and she sounds happy to hear him. “Higgins was surprised to say the least, but I think everyone’s secretly impressed,” she explains. “No one expected that outcome.”

“Yeah, myself included,” Rick murmurs.

“Well, it did wonders for your resume,” she tells him. “I hear you’re at the top of the list.”

“Oh,” Rick says, rubbing the back of his neck. “About that--”

“Okay, really, you are the list,” she says. “The job is yours, if you still want it.”

Rick swallows. Three years.  
 __  
Three years.  
  
“That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about,” he begins.

Because three years is a long time.

But it’s sure as hell not long enough.


End file.
